


Where This Road May Go

by batgurl88



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Angst, Artist Gwen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mind Control, Offscreen Secondary Character Death(s), Orphan Arthur, Pining Merlin, Romance, Royal Arthur, Social Class Angst, Socialite Morgana, There are no talking animals, conman Merlin, orphan Merlin, sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:06:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5477417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batgurl88/pseuds/batgurl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a royal who can't remember his past. Merlin and Gaius are con-men, hoping to return Arthur to Uther for a hefty reward. Little do they know they have the real deal on their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Idea comes from a plot bunny on a thread, proposed by derryere, necro_omen13, and lupine_pyra. Some lines and plot aspects respectfully borrowed from both Fox Animation’s Anastasia and BBC’s Merlin. Updates will be regular. Beta’d by the wonderful justicemischief.
> 
> Formerly titled "My Fair Arty" (finally got around to changing it).
> 
> NOTE: This is not historically accurate (though, I tried hard to make it so). I did a hell of a lot of research and did my best to incorporate aspects of actual history where I could, while adapting some of the film's (inaccurate) representation, but I did simplify and mess around with a lot of Russia's history (and buildings) in the end. As such, the revolution mentioned in this fic is not one of the real revolutions, and though I made a few nods to Grand Duchess Anastasia and her family, this fic does not tell their story. So, this may best be viewed as sort of an alternate universe Russia. Now that I’ve scared away the history majors, we may proceed ;)

\- _Russia, 1917_ -

  
The Nicholas Hall of the Winter Palace was filled to bursting with finely-dressed guests, everyone present indulging in dancing and fine wine to celebrate the _tsar_ and his wife. Outside, snow fell softly on the carriages of those who had travelled great distances to attend the imperial ball.

Prince Uther Frederick Alexander Vilhelm of Denmark entered the Great Hall with a loud proclamation by the chief herald, dancers parting ways to make room for the aging aristocrat. Robed in red military dress with gold trimming, Uther was a magnificent sight as he made his way across the ballroom. He moved with all of the poise and dignity of royalty, walking to the throne on the lower dais that was reserved for his visits with his extended family.

Uther enjoyed these celebrations, even if he was technically a foreigner to Russia. He'd always been one for banquets and parties, appreciating the good food and good company that went with them. It was especially true in this case, as he paused to greet his much-beloved daughter, Igraine Feodorovna Petrovina, _Tsaritsa_ and Empress consort of all Russia.

A vision in her blue velvet gown, complete with a tall _kokoshnik_ , Igraine smiled warmly as if she had not seen Uther just yesterday.

“My dear, you look lovely,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek.

The smile she gave in return seemed to light up the room.

“And you quite handsome,” she returned, clasping his hands in hers, her blue eyes twinkling. Her husband, _Tsar_ Ector, appeared over her shoulder, and Uther nodded a polite acknowledgement.

The third son of the former King of Denmark, widower and heir to little else than his name, Prince Uther had been suspicious of the _tsar_ when Igraine had first announced her intention to marry, though he and Ector had grown to understand one another with time. His early blessing on their union when Ector’s parents had fought the matching of their son with a foreigner tooth and nail had gone a long way in smoothing things over. Ector had made it clear that Uther was always welcome in their home, and the prince had taken full advantage of the invitation over the past fourteen years of their marriage, using every spare opportunity to visit with his only daughter and grandchildren.

“I hear you are to be leaving us,” Ector said by way of greeting, resting his hand on Igraine’s waist.

The prince nodded his regret. “I’m afraid business in France has escalated to a point where it can no longer be ignored,” he explained, inclining his head. He knew it would be bad-mannered of him to continue imposing on his son-in-law’s hospitality for such a long stay, though Igraine seemed to appreciate the company. With _Tsarevitch_ Owain - the couple's eldest son and heir - as ill as he was, the family could use all the cheer they could get.

Igraine seemed to read his thoughts.

“Must you really leave us so soon?” she asked, disappointed. “The children always seem so much better for your visits.”

Uther’s expression softened at the tight lines around her eyes. Owain's illness had taken its toll on the family. The quiet and studious Grand Duchess Helen – their eldest child at thirteen years - worked tirelessly by her mother's side to keep Owain in good spirits during visits to his chambers. Owain himself had been steadfast throughout the past three years of his mysterious sickness, a child at heart but ever aware of his obligation to his family and country. Which just left Arthur - the youngest grand duke - who at the age of eight had little understanding of his older brother’s condition but could recognize the seriousness of his parents’ expressions easily enough.

“I’m sure they’ll get along without me for a little while,” the prince said. “This business in France is sure to be short, at any rate.”

“Our door will be open to you when you return,” Ector assured him, likely as much for Igraine’s benefit as for Uther’s.

He looked to his wife. “I’m sorry to tear you away, but I fear we may have neglected our other guests,” he said, gesturing around the packed ballroom.

Igraine smiled, her expression clearing. “Yes, of course. We’ll speak again later, I’m sure,” she said to Uther.

“I look forward to it,” the prince replied as Ector led her away.

Prince Uther smiled lightly as the musicians began a new piece, crossing to the lower dais to take his seat. He would miss this when he was gone. The parties in Russia were always something to behold. With any luck, his business in France would be swift, and he would be free to return to Russia, no doubt to be greeted by a long list of Arthur’s misdeeds while he was away.

The youngest grand duke had doubled his efforts in recent months at drawing his family’s attention from the unpleasant thoughts of Owain’s illness through his many indiscretions. They included more than a few pranks pulled on the household staff, which had earned him the appropriate nickname of "troublemaker." Though some of his behaviour could be construed as mean-spirited, Uther knew he had a good heart underneath, and his misdeeds never failed to make Owain laugh.

It was this grandchild who parted eagerly from the crowd to greet Uther, racing to the lower dais before briefly remembering himself long enough to bow politely. Uther hid a smile behind his hand, nodding a greeting in return. Although he loved all of his grandchildren equally, he could not deny the bit of himself he saw in Arthur, perhaps through the standing they shared as younger sons. The boy was the spitting image of his mother, her piercing blue eyes staring back up at him in the awe only an impressionable grandson could manage.

"Grandpapa, Helen says you're to be leaving," Arthur bit out impatiently in the tone of a boy used to getting what he wanted. His hands fidgeted behind his back in a habit his tutors had long-sought to rid him of.

Prince Uther nodded, beckoning the child forward. "I will be returning to Paris soon, Arthur. I can hardly stay in Russia forever."

Arthur frowned at this - Uther knew the child looked forward to his visits, and notoriously sulked for weeks once he’d gone. This time, he had prepared for such a possibility, reaching into the folds of his tunic.

"I have something for you."

He pulled out the small silver box he'd dug out of his possessions, holding it up for Arthur to inspect.

The young _velikii kniaz_ 's eyes widened as he accepted it cautiously, fingering the engravings.

"Dragons! Like the ones you read to me about," he exclaimed. Large dragon carvings decorated the box, their eyes bejewelled and wings stretched out as if in flight. They moulded themselves to the edges of the metal, bringing it to life.

"Open it," Uther instructed, a smile in his eyes. He'd waited for some time to pass this treasure on to his grandchild - something special between the two of them.

Eagerly, Arthur pushed the latch, only to frown a moment later.

"It's empty," he pouted, looking up in disappointment.

"Really?" the prince replied innocently, lifting a thin gold chain from around his neck. Hanging from the chain was a small key shaped like a broadsword. "Maybe you should try it with this," Uther suggested, sliding the sword-key into a concealed hole in the middle dragon's chest.

Turning the key slowly until it clicked, Arthur grinned as he opened the box again, finding a small portrait of the two of them.

"This box belonged to my father," Prince Uther explained, placing the chain around Arthur's neck. "He gave it to me when I was a small boy, and he'd always leave something new inside for me to find when he went away. Now it's yours. You can hide whatever you want inside of it, and no one but you or I will know how to get it out."

"Like a secret?" Arthur inquired eagerly, looking at the box with a newfound appreciation.

"Exactly," he nodded. He gestured to the key. "Read the inscription."

Arthur brought the small sword up in front of his face to marvel at the words etched on the side of the blade. His brow creased as he struggled to read the small lettering.

"' _Together ... in Paris,_ '" Arthur pronounced slowly. His eyes lit up. "I can come and visit you?"

"Provided you keep up with your studies and mind your parents," the prince instructed sternly, remembering his grandson's penchant for causing trouble. Truthfully, some time away from his family would probably do them all a bit of good, stressed as Ector and Igraine were with Owain's condition. One less child to worry about would be a relief for both of his parents and Uther looked forward to showing Arthur around France.

"I will, I promise!" Arthur swore, sounding more serious than ever, even as a pleased smile broke out over his face. He marvelled at his new treasure, even as he regaled his grandpapa with all of the latest stories about his family he'd missed in the lead-up to tonight's ball.

* * *

Glancing over his shoulder, a short boy with a mop of dark hair made his way down the long tunnel of the servant's corridor, pressing his hand against the panel that lay at the end of the passageway. A slight boy of nearly eight, Merlin Emyrov gently pushed the panel open, enough to earn him a small sliver-sized glimpse of the Nicholas Hall and all its guests. Gazing out at the rich and powerful nobles from all over Russia, he scanned the crowd curiously, eyes settling on the back of Prince Uther's throne as the sounds of the party wafted into the corridor. Cracking the door just a bit further, his eyes softened as a young blond boy came into view.

On normal days, Merlin seldom managed more than quick glimpses of the blond-haired _velikii kniaz_ as he turned a corner or disappeared into a room. Arthur – like his siblings – was usually busy with his lessons, or riding his horse, or practicing with his rifle, and Merlin was confined, as always, to the kitchens.

It was only on grand occasions such as this that he could chance sneaking away to catch a decent look at the Petrovins, and all of the wealth and splendour that seemed to travel with them. _Tsaritsa_ Igraine was well-known for her parties, after all, even if recent sentiment amongst the people seemed to be that such extravagance for the pleasure of nobles was obscene.

"Here you are!"

Merlin jumped and whipped around, guilty that he'd been caught. His panic eased when he saw a familiar face in the passageway. The taller boy - William Kozlov - had his hands on his hips, a vaguely exasperated look on his face.

Will was a year older than him, and had lived with his father in the palace all his life, serving from a young age. He'd been a fast friend to Merlin, having, in his own words, "taken him under his wing." To Merlin, this seemed to require a lot of telling him what to do, but they’d gotten along well just the same.

"Are you throwing off your chores _again_ , Merlin?" he demanded, crossing over to him. "Anton had you mopping the floors for two months the last time. He'll have your head if you're caught ditching. He already thinks you're the worst servant ever."

"I'll be there in a minute," Merlin said absently, turning his attention back to the ball and to Arthur.

Will followed his line of vision, his frown deepening. "The grand duke?" he scoffed, disappointed. "You're joking, Merlin. He doesn't even know you _exist_!"

He reddened, trying to sound casual, "I'm just looking at the party, Will."

"He's a _bully_ ," Will insisted, glaring out at the boy in question. "Just yesterday, Elena saw him trip Morris into the sop bucket for a laugh! These royals are all the same - we're nothing but entertainment to him. I'll be happy when they leave and it's back to just us servants living here.”

Merlin shrugged. “It’s only a short visit,” he reminded him, failing as ever to understand his friend’s dislike of the royals. The Petrovins only stayed at the Winter Palace for a few months out of the year, after all - preferring their permanent residence at Alexander Palace – which was hardly enough time to develop any sort of grudge. “I don’t mind them so much.”

Will sneered, nodding towards the party again. “I wonder why?” he replied sarcastically.

Shaking his head, he turned down the passageway, looking back impatiently. "Are you coming?"

"You go ahead," Merlin said, sparing him a quick glance. "I'll be right there."

Will rolled his eyes in disgust. "Suit yourself," he waved dismissively, heading toward the kitchens.

Turning his full attention to the party, Merlin frowned. He wasn't sure what it was about the youngest grand duke that drew his interest. As Will had said, Arthur didn't know he existed, and there was little chance of that ever changing. Servants were invisible to him outside of his practical jokes. He also had a nasty reputation among the help for being a bit of a jerk. Yet something about the boy and his family - who regularly up-heaved the lives of the palace servants in their visits - intrigued him.

Pushing the panel open a bit more to grant himself a better view, Merlin quirked his lips. Much as Will relished the months when they had the palace to themselves, Merlin found himself trapped by the predictability of it. He was bored of spending his days in the endless task of keeping the place in working order. Spying on these parties was probably the closest he'd ever get to seeing the world outside of his station.

He watched as the grand duke beamed over a small silver jewelled box with his grandfather, his eyes lighting up as he talked. Merlin squinted. From what he could see, it was a very nice treasure - expensive, surely - but certainly no nicer than any of the grand duke's other possessions. He wondered what it was about it that had made the other boy's smile reach his eyes for the first time that evening.

"Merlin!"

Anton Egorov, chief of the palace footmen, had unexpectedly materialised behind him, grabbing him around his midsection and pulling him back in the direction of the kitchens. "You know you're not supposed to be out here. Get back to work!"

Merlin struggled a bit against the tight grip, but it was really just for show - he knew he'd been caught. Sighing, he let the older man drag him back to the other servants, the panel sliding shut and the splendour of the imperial ball disappearing from sight.

* * *

A scuffle to Arthur’s right caught his eye. He frowned as he thought he saw a pair of dark blue eyes gawking at him from the direction of the servant's entrance, but they disappeared far too quickly for him to be sure. Shaking his head, he turned back to his grandpapa.

Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin hated parties. Especially ones filled to bursting with boring speeches and even more boring guests who insisted on talking to the Grand Duke of Russia, in spite of the fact that he was only eight years old and didn't give two hoots about their opinions on the recent rumours of an uprising in St. Petersburg.

Wishing he could still be abed like his older brother, Owain, and thus free from the torment that was royal responsibility, he'd shuffled about on the dance floor for the better part of two hours already. The uncomfortable white and gold tunic the palace tailors had modelled after his father's did nothing to aid his desperate attempt to look unavailable – or, better yet, _invisible_ \- to Count Tarasovich's incredibly annoying daughter, Sophia, who had already pestered three dances out of him that evening and had been looking eager for more.

The appearance of his grandpapa had been a godsend, and he'd latched onto the older man's presence, marvelling at his new gift and entertaining daydreams of shoving it under Owain’s nose later that night. Surely his brother - who was always receiving large gifts from strange dignitaries and visitors for being the heir - had never received such an important present from their grandpapa.

On the dance floor, his sister, Grand Duchess Helen, had been approached by no less than five partners, all of which she'd graciously accepted, though Arthur knew she hated to dance as much as he did. His mother had insisted they be extra polite to all of the guests but to refrain from answering any questions about Owain's health. Not that anyone had bothered asking him about it. Owain had been ill for so long that it was rather old news in the court.

Suddenly, the air in the Nicholas Hall grew unnaturally cold. Arthur shivered as wind picked up out of nowhere, cutting at the skirts of the dancers. The chandeliers began to flicker and dim as a hooded figure stepped forward, parting the crowd.

Prince Uther stood, beckoning Arthur closer. "Get behind me," he ordered quietly, his eyes glued to Arthur's mother and sister. Reluctantly, he obeyed, peering out around his grandpapa's side in interest.

The figure made her way silently to the centre of the hall, stopping just before Arthur’s parents. Pale hands surfaced from beneath the silvery cloak to pull back the hood, revealing a beautiful dark-haired woman.

"Nimueh," _Tsar_ Ector growled, stepping in front of Igraine. A murmur of recognition spread through the crowd at the name of the disgraced healer and advisor most guests had probably only heard rumours about. She was no stranger to Arthur, though he'd never seen her quite like this. Her cold eyes had always been kind during her visits, but that had been before his parents had banished her from court. His mother had scolded him for asking what it was that made her so dangerous.

A pleased smile graced Nimueh's lips as she parted the rest of her cloak, revealing a shockingly red dress.

"Greetings, Your Highness," she called tauntingly, her voice echoing in the stillness of the hall. “I see I did not warrant an invitation to your party, but I’ll pay my respects all the same.”

"How dare you show your face here!"

Arthur's father was angrier than he'd ever seen him, the crowd holding its breath as one, not a guest daring to move.

Nimueh's features soured slightly. "Now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Your Highness?"

"You are no friend of ours," Igraine spoke up, taking a step toward her.

Arthur felt his grandpapa stiffen as his mother spoke, as if trying not to call out to her. He rather wished he would - perhaps the disruption would startle the fear from his parents' eyes.

The woman bristled at the accusation, clenching her fists menacingly. "I was once your most trusted advisor! Your _confidant_!"

_Tsar_ Ector set his jaw in anger. "That was before you were found out for what you are! Sorcery is the work of the Old Ones, and those who practice its evil shall never be welcome in our home."

A harsh and cackling laugh rang loudly throughout the hall, sending chills down the spines of all who were present.

"You speak of what you do not know, _Tsar_ Ector," Nimueh insisted, reaching into the folds of her dress. "Magic is neither good nor evil. I practiced sorcery for the good of your family, but you refused to see my intentions for what they were. Instead, you had me exiled, disgraced, and sent your citizens to hunt me like a common traitor. Now, you shall see the evils of the sorcery you fear so much."

Her words were spiteful, bitter. She lifted her hand, producing a red glass vial on a cord. Arthur eyed it warily, but the _tsar_ refused to let the fear reach his eyes.

Nimueh smiled in vindication, the phial humming to life.

"I curse you, Ector! You and your entire family. The country which you so love will rise up and turn against you. I shall see your family burn, hated and disgraced. So is my promise - I will not rest until the royal line of Petrovin is brought to an end!"

The crowd gasped, drawing back, and Arthur gripped his grandpapa's arm in fear.

A red glow encased the hall, causing those present to shield their eyes. When it cleared, the witch was gone, the words of the curse ringing in their ears.

Igraine hid her head on Ector's shoulder, shaking with despair as he wrapped his arms around her, murmuring assurances. Helen was pale, standing off to the side of her parents. Arthur darted around his grandpapa's frozen form, running to join the rest of his family in the centre of the hall, cold dread settling in his chest.

* * *

It was an icy night several weeks after the ball then that saw Nimueh's curse come to pass.

The people of Russia had grown unhappy with the monarchy, and with _Tsar_ Ector's leadership in particular. Only two days before, Arthur's father had promised to abdicate the throne in hopes of appeasing the revolutionaries, but some radicals claimed that there could be no peace for Russia as long as the _tsar_ or any member of his family continued to live.

What had once been mere whispers and grumbles of malcontent from a few rebels were now loud shouts from the masses, strengthened, some said, by the curse Nimueh had laid upon their family. Rumours stirred throughout the city and palace that the witch had traded her soul for the power to destroy the _tsar_.

With all of the tension in the air, Arthur's grandpapa had delayed his trip to Paris again, too worried for the safety of his family to consider leaving.

It was Uther who woke Arthur that night, stealing into his chambers to rouse him. Outside, firelight flickered against Arthur's windowpanes, and the young grand duke frowned, confused.

"What's going on?" he wondered, pushing back his bedclothes. The prince was wearing his winter coat.

Uther beckoned him forward. "There's no time, Arthur. We must leave. Now!"

Alarmed by the worry in his normally stalwart grandpapa's face, Arthur did not question him further. He hopped from his bed, grabbing his coat and pulling it on as Uther guided him out of the bedroom.

The hallway was utter chaos, with servants and attendants rushing in every direction, the odd scream of panic sounding as loud shouts could be heard from outside the palace.

Uther led Arthur to the main hall where the rest of their family had gathered, dressed in their nightclothes, Helen in tears and clutching a favoured childhood doll and Owain struggling to stand, leaning heavily against his father. Igraine cried out in relief upon seeing them, hugging Arthur tightly.

"We need to leave," Ector said, ushering Helen in front of him. "Head to the North entrance. There's a carriage waiting."

Igraine and Ector led them across the hall at a brisk pace, the children following, doing their best to ignore the frightening scenes of panic that surrounded them. Arthur, confused and more scared than he wanted to admit, tugged at his mother's sleeve.

"Mother? What's happening?"

"It's the revolutionaries," Helen answered for her, her expression macabre. "They've come to kill us."

"Hush, Helen," Uther scolded, placing a guiding hand on his granddaughter’s back.

The sound of glass breaking startled screams from the hallway's inhabitants. Ector paled.

"Hurry, children! Hurry!" Arthur's father urged, pulling a terrified Helen along beside him. Shouts sounded from outside, causing Igraine to look back fearfully as she helped her ailing son along. Owain was white with the effort and strain of keeping up with his family.

"Quickly, my darlings!"

All around them, the household staff raced about in fright as the sounds of the attack grew louder. Arthur spotted two servants looting through his mother’s rooms, their arms full of precious jewels.

Shoved down the corridor along with his brother and sister, Arthur suddenly froze, his eyes widening. "My treasure box!" Ducking around Helen, he ran back toward his bedroom, pushing through the sea of frightened adults.

His grandpapa shouted after him, but he kept running. He couldn’t leave it behind.

* * *

Merlin hurried down the stairs from the servant's quarters in the attic, his hand on the sleeve of another servant. He'd lost track of Will in the panic, but everyone seemed to be heading for the rear exit. Following, he scanned the fearful faces of the people running with him, wondering how long they'd have until the rebels got inside the palace.

A flash of blond in the corner of his eye caught his attention and Merlin paused, his eyes tracking the grand duke. Elena, a scullery maid, grabbed his arm.

"Merlin, what are you doing?" she cried, trying to pull him with her along the corridor. "We have to leave!"

Dressed in only a nightshirt and breeches, Merlin watched as Arthur vanished around a corner.

"You go ahead," he told her, giving her a push. "Go! I'll meet up with you later."

The girl didn't need to be told twice, sparing him only a short glance of concern before running off to join the others.

Rounding the corner of the hallway, Prince Uther in fast pursuit, Merlin chased Arthur back to his quarters, watching as the grand duke scurried inside. He paused in the doorway, seeing Arthur scan the room before making a grab for the silver box on the nightstand.

"Your Highness," Merlin started, cringing as the noise of breaking glass sounded from inside the palace itself. They didn't have very long.

"Arthur! What are you doing?"

Uther burst into the room, barring the door behind him as sounds of the approaching mob grew louder. His eyes swept the chamber, glossing over Merlin's presence as he raced toward his grandson and pulled him close.

A loud bang startled the pair, the door to the room straining against the opposing forces outside.

" _Open up!_ "

Turning his head, Prince Uther looked around for another escape. "We have to get out of here."

Thinking quickly, Merlin ran to the wall opposite Arthur's bed, running his fingers along it until he found the outlines of a panel, pulling it open.

"In here!" he urged, rushing to push the prince and his grandson toward the door in the wall. "The servant's entrance! Hurry!"

Uther and Arthur ran to the entrance, Uther ducking quickly inside. Jostled, the silver box dropped from Arthur's hands.

"Wait!" He turned back, trying to force his way past Merlin. "My treasure box!"

"There's no time," Merlin insisted, shoving the young _velikii kniaz_ back inside the passageway. "Just go!"

He shut the panel, the edges disappearing into the wall just as the door burst open behind him. The servant turned to face it, surreptitiously guarding the royals' escape as three men with bayonets entered. He clenched his fists menacingly.

"Where are they, boy?" one of the men demanded, levelling his weapon at Merlin.

Merlin grabbed the object nearest to him - a priceless vase that he had once been scolded for standing too close to - and chucked it at the intruders. He barely had time to appreciate the satisfying impact it made against the shorter man's head before the butt of a gun sent him sprawling to the floor, the jewelled box forgotten by his side.

* * *

The tunnels in the servant's passageway were confusing to Arthur, but Prince Uther quickly led the way outside, a cold blast of air greeting the pair as they found themselves standing next to the frozen pond beside the palace. Racing across the snow-covered ice, the young grand duke struggled to keep his balance while keeping pace with his grandpapa.

They tripped and slid their way along the ice, Uther's hand a vice grip on Arthur's wrist as Nimueh appeared from a shadowed corner of the courtyard, cutting off their path, her eyes glowing with hate. Arthur froze.

"Arthur, run!" Uther shouted, ducking him around the sorceress.

"Don't think you'll escape me that easily, Grand Duke," she sneered. She raised her arm, the red vial she'd produced at the ball glowing to life again.

The world around them exploded, sending Uther and Arthur flying. The air was knocked from Arthur’s lungs, his chin smashing painfully against the ice as he fell. A few metres away, Uther landed heavily on the ground and did not move.

The sorceress slithered up behind Arthur, boasting.

"The Petrovin line will end today," she vowed, pulling him toward her, the red glass on her wrist thrumming with unnatural energy.

"Grandpapa!" Arthur cried, holding out his hands while desperately struggling against Nimueh's grabbing fingers, succeeding only in further angering her. He squirmed in her grasp as Uther finally struggled to his feet. In a moment he was running back toward them.

A well-placed kick knocked the phial from its cord around her wrist, sending it skating across the snow-dusted ice.

Nimueh's eyes widened, her grasp loosening as she followed its path toward a hole in the ice. "No!"

Taking his chance, Uther grabbed Arthur's arms and pulled him away, the pair of them slipping across the ice as they made their escape. Behind them, there came a loud crack as more of the frozen surface began to give way under Nimueh’s weight, her vial coming to a halt mere inches from the hole.

The red glass thrummed again, this time ominously, as Nimueh dropped to her belly to retrieve it. Stretching her arm out to where it rested beside the opening, she had just barely brushed her fingers against it when an even louder crack sounded from beneath her.

Arthur turned and watched, horror-struck, as she vanished, the vial following her plunge beneath the icy surface. He felt sick - he'd never seen a person die before, even a person as horrible as her.

A sharp tug from his grandpapa brought the grand duke back to himself.

"We have to hurry, Arthur," said Uther, pulling him along by the elbow.

"But-" Arthur's thoughts turned back to his family as he glanced back at the palace. "Mother! And- and Helen and Owain-"

"They'll be all right," the prince replied tightly, his voice strained and his eyes red-rimmed in the light of the fire. "We'll meet up with them later. Now, come along!"

The two of them ran until Arthur was sure his lungs would burst from the effort, the cruel winter air biting at his insides with every breath, numbing his face and hands. His nightclothes and slippers were a poor match for the weather, his breath misting before him with each gasp.

"We're almost there, Arthur," his grandpapa assured him, still glancing nervously back in the direction of the palace as they ran, lest they'd been followed. "Hurry."

The train station was crowded, but Uther led them through the crowd effortlessly, pushing and shoving the other patrons aside, dragging Arthur along behind him. On the platform, the train gave a sharp whistle, its wheels beginning to turn as the last of the passengers scurried aboard.

"Faster, Arthur!"

Uther raced along the platform, Arthur's hand slipping from his grip as he drew up alongside of the train. Panting, the aging royal leaped aboard the rear platform with a groan. Arthur let out a sigh of relief as the passengers at the rear of the train moved to help him, holding him in place when he would have stumbled back.

Uther turned quickly to hold his hand out for him.

“Hurry!”

Arthur ran, reaching his arm up as far as it would go, his fingers just out of reach as the train began to pick up speed.

"Come on, little one," another passenger urged, reaching out a hand to him as well.

"Almost there," strained Uther, leaning as far as the railing would allow him, the tips of their fingers brushing. Their hands locked together briefly.

"Don't let go," Arthur pleaded, his short legs struggling to keep up even as he felt his fingers slipping. He was running out of platform and the train continued to gain speed.

Uther winced with the effort as the smaller hand slowly slid from his grasp. In an instant, he'd lost his grip, Arthur giving a sharp cry as he fell back, his head smashing painfully against the platform and sending stars before his eyes.

"No! Arthur!" the prince yelled, making to jump after his falling grandson, only to be held back by the concerned passengers of the train.

"It's no use, friend," a burly man behind him insisted, pulling the Prince of Denmark's back inside the safety gate. "The train's going too fast now."

"He's right," urged a woman with greying hair, placing a consoling hand on his arm. "You’d never make it.”

Uther shook his head, ignoring their reasoning as the image of his grandson disappeared into the crowd of the train station, growing smaller with each second. " _Arthur!_ "

On the station platform, a young boy that no one recognized had his last conscious glimpse of the departing train - the sounds of the crowd growing muffled around him - before giving in to the throbbing in his head, allowing darkness to claim him at last.

  

* * * 

  
**Rough Translations (for those that need them, and I’m hardly an expert):**  
_Tsar_ – loosely translated to “Emperor.” Former title of the head monarch of Russia.  
_Tsarita_ – loosely translated to “Empress.” Wife of the tsar.  
_Tsarevitch_ – the heir apparent. Son of the tsar.  
_Velikii Kniaz_ – loosely translated to “Grand Duke.” Son of the tsar, but not the heir. Arthur’s title.  
_Kokoshnik_ – a diadem-shaped tiara that was part of the official court dress for royalty and ladies-in-waiting


	2. Chapter 2

 - _Russia, ten years later_ -

  
The city of St. Petersburg was alive like never before, its citizens trading whispered gossip with the morning bread. No one dared to speak the rumours any louder for fear of being overheard by the wrong people, but to a fellow worker one could hardly resist sharing the most delicious news to reach the city in months.

It had been ten long years since the palace had been invaded and the _tsar_ and his family killed, but time had not halted the country's fascination with the events surrounding their death.

Rumours had circulated for ages that the emperor and his family had somehow managed to escape their untimely fate; that they had stolen away into hiding - perhaps in Denmark, or maybe France. Several people had even briefly claimed to be members of the royal family, forced into exile by the threat of the revolutionaries. It was a concept that sparked the imaginations of the citizens, for nothing was as interesting as a good scandal.

However, no tale regarding the former royal family had captured the minds of the people like the one currently buzzing in the marketplace. News of the aging Prince Uther had travelled from France, where the royal had been lying low this past decade since the revolution, deeply immersed in his grief.

"The prince believes his youngest grandson survived the attack," a middle-aged baker woman informed the bearded man at her stall, her expression gleaming with the light of someone who was in-the-know. "He wishes to be reunited with him again."

The man shook his head, enthralled. "But how? How could a child have escaped it?"

She shrugged.

"They say His Royal Highness is offering a reward of ten million _rubles_ to whoever can produce his grandson," the woman further confided, a greedy glint in her eyes.

Her companion whistled, impressed. "Ten million _rubles_. Can you imagine?"

Unnoticed behind them, a skinny young man with a mop of dark brown hair listened intently - no great feat, given the size of his ears - a satisfied grin on his face. The rumours had been circulating for weeks. It would seem that Prince Uther, in his old age, yearned for his lost family, and no reward was too great if it meant some part of them could be found.

It was all the better for their plan, the man decided quietly to himself, taking his leave of the baker's stall to navigate his way down the bleak and snowy streets of St. Petersburg. With the rumours continuing to stir the interest of the public, Prince Uther would no doubt be more receptive to any potential grandsons that came knocking at his door.

Dressed in a worn brown coat with a faded red neckerchief in lieu of a scarf, Merlin Emyrov was as skinny as a stick, his blue eyes kind but intelligent. His grin continued to grow as he walked, ducking his head as he passed a pair of young women. Though he was something of a familiar face in this area, he did his best to keep a low profile, his business not always of a reputable nature. There was rarely a deal or con within the city limits that Merlin didn't have a hand in, often earning him a top spot on the roster of people the Russian police would love to apprehend. No longer a kitchen boy without prospects, he'd honed his skills over the years, perfecting the arts of misdirection and deception. Of course, having a partner who knew what they were doing didn't hurt, either.

Today, his anonymity was as important as ever. The streets grew more deserted as he neared a boarded-up old building that looked to have been abandoned for some time. A whispered password granted him entrance, the door to St. Petersburg's underbelly creaking open for him.

Here, there were no colourful shop stalls or wholesome bakeries. The carts and tables housed items of a more delicate variety, though they held little interest for Merlin on this particular morning. He scanned the crowd discreetly as he passed a cart of stolen jewellery, finally spotting a shock of white hair to his left.

A sharp whistle made Gaius spin around, startled. Searching out the source of the disturbance, the older man's eyes softened in recognition and relief.

"Merlin," he greeted, moving to meet his partner and friend.

"Who else would it be?" Merlin replied cheekily, giving him a clap on the back.

A sharp man for his age, Gaius Dracov was well-known for his work in these parts, though his name was withheld from all but the most loyal of customers. A forger with a keen eye for detail, he had once been a member of the Imperial Court, before its downfall had left him destitute and reliant on his more questionable skills for income and survival. Gone were the fine robes and military dress, replaced with a drab brown tunic that had seen happier times. These days, his place beside Merlin on the list of most-wanted criminals made it equally beneficial for him to blend into the crowd.

Gaius jerked his head toward a curtained section of the market, eager to get away from prying eyes. Merlin followed, grinning excitedly.

The pair hurried up a rickety set of stairs to one of their many hideaways - a modest attic room with two scant sets of bedding on the floor - Merlin hardly waiting for the door to close before he turned to Gaius eagerly.

"It's all set," he informed him, rustling under a loose floorboard for his suitcase and what few possessions he had. "I've spread the news about the auditions to all the right people. We'll meet the prospective actors at noon."

Gaius bustled around the room in a similar fashion, gathering the necessary items of his trade from their hidden compartments, a safeguard against raids by the police. "Good. I've booked us the theatre downtown. It should be discreet enough for our purposes." He pulled a dark blue set of robes from behind a heavy wooden dresser, tossing them to the younger man. "Here, I bought these from a vendor downstairs. He claims they're from the palace, for all that that's worth. They might come in useful when we find our grand duke."

Merlin caught them, flattening out the creases with approval.

"This is it, Gaius!" he crowed happily, inspecting the robes. "No more fake visas, no more stolen goods, or barely managing to scrape by! When we bring the prince his long-lost grandson, we'll be rolling in _rubles_."

"Well, there's no use counting the reward just yet," his friend cautioned, stuffing his latest forgeries into his bag. "We still haven't found the right man to play Arthur."

Merlin shrugged, too thrilled at the prospect of their imminent payday to worry. "He's out there somewhere, just waiting to be tutored by us. I have a good feeling about today's auditions."

Gaius gave a long-suffering sigh. "You always have a good feeling about the auditions. Yet, it would seem as though the role of the grand duke is a hard one to fill. And there is always the chance of somebody else beating us to the prize."

Packing his suitcase, Merlin hummed happily, hardly listening. The plan to deceive Prince Uther for the reward money may not have been an original one, but they had something that no other con artist had.

Fishing along the very bottom of the sub-floor, he carefully scooped up a bundle of soft fabric. Unwrapping it slowly, he smiled as the red jewels of the palm-sized silver box glittered up at him from the dragons' eyes. The intricate detail of the carvings had never ceased to amaze him.

This was his most treasured possession. The discarded box was the only item he'd swiped from the palace the morning after the siege. It was a very fine piece, worth more than its weight in _rubles_ , having belonged to the ill-fated grand duke. But no matter how desperate he'd grown over the years, he'd never been able to part with it. And now, Merlin's foresight was about to pay off. Once Prince Uther caught a glimpse of the box, he'd believe whatever actor they threw at him.

Still, Merlin would be sad to see it go, even to such a worthy cause as ten million _rubles_. He'd spent many a cold night huddled in near-silence as Gaius' snores shook the foundation of whatever hovel they'd taken refuge in at the time, staring at the designs on the box and remembering the peculiar grand duke with the bright blue eyes. The box was empty but he’d never felt the desire to store things inside, feeling strangely like an intruder for even opening it – like he was trespassing on something he didn’t fully understand.

Upon waking alone in the deserted palace the day after the raid, Merlin had stumbled into town, hoping to hear word that the boy and his grandpa had made it safely into hiding. Instead, news came swiftly of the family's deaths at the hands of the revolutionaries, with only Prince Uther surviving to make his way to France. It was hard to describe how he'd felt after learning that his one foolish act of bravery had been in vain, and he'd resolved never to speak of that night again, though many curious citizens had tried to pry the story from him. The jewelled box remained his one and only confidante on the matter.

"Merlin?" Gaius called, raising a severe eyebrow at his daydreaming. "Hurry up. We'd best be going if we don't want to be late."

Shaking himself from his sentimental musings, Merlin carefully wrapped the box up again, stowing it in his suitcase with the rest of his belongings.

*  *  *

The People's Orphanage stood alone in the middle of a deserted, snow-covered plain, its wooden exterior faded and worn with neglect. The administrator, Lada Kuzmina Fedorova - a hard-nosed woman with stark cheekbones and more wrinkles than an elephant's knee - made her way down the path, wrapping her ragged shawl more tightly around her, grumbling mercilessly at the weather. Beside her, a handsome young man in a long, dark coat and frayed winter gloves rolled his eyes.

"I was afraid this day would never come," Lada Kuzmina groused. "You've been a thorn in my side since the moment you arrived."

"The feeling's mutual, I'm sure," the young man muttered, turning his eyes back to the cramped and dilapidated house that had been his home - however grudgingly - for the last ten years. It wasn't all that hard to say goodbye.

"Well, you're eighteen, now," she continued with a somewhat vicious smile, either having not heard his comment or simply choosing to ignore it. "That means you're somebody else's problem."

They'd reached the heavy iron gate, and Lada turned her disapproving face on him, her hands moving to her hips. "When you were brought here as a child, with no memory of your past, I took you in without question. I fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over that big head of yours. Now, it's time you got off your high horse and took your place where you belong, Arty," she advised with a scowl. "You prance around here like royalty, thinking yourself better than everyone else, when you have not even a clue who you are!"

"I _do_ have a clue," Arty argued, his hand jumping automatically to the thin chain around his neck. He pulled on it, the small metal sword that hung from the gold links falling into the palm of his gloved hand.

"Yes, yes, _'Together in Paris'_ ," the older woman spat, unimpressed. She pulled the latch on the wrought iron fence, the great thing creaking open. "I managed to get you a job at the factory in the next village. Just walk straight down that way until you hit the fork in the road. Turn right. And don't let me see you back here again."

The gate slammed shut with a loud _clank_ , and Lada Kuzmina made her way back down the path, grumbling as she went.

"Hmmph," Arty huffed from the other side of the gate, crossing his arms against the cold. "Good riddance. _Thought I'd never be free of this place_ ," he added, just loudly enough for the older woman to hear, smirking as she grumbled all-the-more-fervently.

He started off down the path, shoving his hands in the worn pockets of his coat as he went. It had been ten long years since Arty had shown up on the doorstep of the orphanage, led by a local merchant who’d found him wandering around the city in his nightclothes by himself. His memories from before that time were fuzzy at best, more like whispers of sounds and sensations that meant little when matched up against each other.

The merchant had guessed him to be around seven or eight years old, but could tell him little else. The only hint to his identity had been the gold chain and sword with its rather genial inscription. It was meaningless to the adults who’d tried to suss out his identity, and who perhaps believed him to be lying about his memory loss, but for Arty, it meant only one thing: somebody, somewhere, had cared about him.

He'd latched onto the words in the inscription, learning all he could about Paris from the other orphans, and from the few books he'd managed to get his hands on. The fact that he could apparently read quite well had barely fazed him, focused as he was on his goal. The city began to captivate him, its very name igniting a sense of hope and adventure as he kept himself company with daydreams of his loving family in France. They hadn't wanted to leave him, of that he was sure, though his lack of visitors as the years went on did its best to convince him otherwise.

Arty spotted the fork in the road Lada Kuzmina had described, the signpost indicating that the village was to the right, as she'd said. He stopped and frowned, sighing. Down that road lay a lifetime spent much as he'd spent the last ten years - as an orphan with no past and no real future.

His eyes flickered to the other sign, ghosting over the faded lettering of _'St. Petersburg.'_ A thrill of excitement went through him at the thought of running off to the bigger city, boarding a train or a bus, and beginning the search for his family.

He took a step down the road and faltered, his frown deepening.

For ten years, he'd comforted himself with the promise of escaping the orphanage and running off to Paris on an adventure. Now that he was there, however, the adventure felt almost too big.

Undecided, he brushed the snow off a fallen log and sat, putting his head in his hands. Down one path lay a life that was predictable and safe, if not completely boring. Down the other lay uncertainty. The possibilities were endless, for good and for bad.

Sighing, he pulled the thin gold chain from around his neck, letting the sword rest in his palm once more. The words of the inscription glared up at him.

Whatever lies he'd fed himself, he couldn't deny the niggling doubts that had bothered him all these years. He had no idea why his family hadn't come for him, or if they were even still alive, and if he continued on to the factory, he'd never _have_ to know. He could spend the rest of his life believing the daydreams he'd indulged in, never having to face the harsh truth of reality. Never knowing for certain...

Arty shook his head. That way would be easiest, but he’d hate himself for it.

He closed his fist around the sword, looking back at the signposts. Maybe they hadn't wanted him or maybe something had happened to keep them from coming back, but if there was even a possibility that his family was waiting for him in Paris, Arty owed it to himself to find out.

He took a deep breath and stood.

"Here goes nothing," he said quietly. Taking another deep breath for courage, he marched off down the road to St. Petersburg.

*  *  *

The Mussorgsky Theatre had long been in disrepair, its structure damaged heavily in the revolution many years ago; though no one had bothered to fix it or even tear it down. Today, it was home to a strange crew, indeed, its interior bursting with a long line of eager men, many of whom had liberal views on both personal appearance and hygiene.

One such man was currently holding centre stage, reciting a monologue with a prop horse that looked suspiciously like an upturned mop.

"I," the man declared dramatically, "am the spitting image of His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin! And, see, I am a magnificent rider, just like his majesty!"

The man then began to gallop about the stage in a rather embarrassing display, adding the appropriate whickers and clopping noises for his 'horse'.

Merlin had never seen anything so disturbing in his entire life.

"Okay, great, thanks," he called, stopping the actor mid-performance. "That's great. Next!"

The man sighed, trudging off the stage, his horse neighing its disappointment.

At a table across from the stage, the two con artists sat, disheartened.

"I'd say this lot is worse than the last," Gaius muttered, scratching another name off the list. They were already three quarters through the day, and had not found a single promising actor in the bunch. It seemed that their auditions - though widely attended - were proving rather fruitless.

"Maybe they just need a chance to warm up?" Merlin ventured doubtfully as the next potential took to the stage.

"Grandpapa, it is _me_ , Arthur!" a skinny, curly-haired man squeaked, hoisting high a stick clearly meant to be a sword of some kind. Merlin buried his head in his hands.

"Yes, thank you," Gaius said diplomatically, standing to shoo the man off the stage. "We'll let you know."

"This is impossible," mumbled Merlin from behind his fingers.

"Where's that optimism you were so keen on this morning?" Gaius wondered idly, sifting through the pages of names before them.

"It's gone," he declared melodramatically. "I think the third one killed it. You know, the one that looked like a cross between a rottweiler and a mermaid? And I'm pretty sure the one before that was a girl!"

"He did seem rather well-endowed," Gaius agreed, pulling out the next set of names.

Merlin groaned, raising his head. It unnerved him to no end that his partner could remain calm in the face of so many catastrophes. Nothing seemed to shake the older man, and Merlin hated to be alone in his panicking.

"This is a disaster!" he said, determined to make Gaius as convinced of their inevitable failure as he was. "The greatest con in history, and we're going to blow it because no one around here even moderately resembles the grand duke."

Gaius shook his head.

"Honestly, Merlin," the older man sighed. "Will you _never_ learn patience? Remember, there's no—"

"— _'No such thing as an easy con,'_ " he recited with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

Gaius pursed his lips. "So, you _do_ listen to me on occasion," he said. "I was beginning to think those big ears of yours were just for show."

Merlin frowned at the insult, fingering his ears self-consciously. After a moment, he sighed. Gaius was right - there was no use giving up just yet. Steeling himself for the next contender, he straightened in his seat.

"All right. Let's get this over with."

*  *  *

A sense of purpose guided Arty all the way to the centre of St. Petersburg, the thrill of adventure running through him at the sight of the bustling city. He could be meeting his parents by the end of the week, or shaking hands with his brothers and sisters. He could even have nieces and nephews by now, and wouldn't they be excited to meet him! Everything was going to fall into place, he could tell.

It was with this thrum of destiny coursing through his veins that he strolled up to the ticket kiosk at the train station, greeting the agent with a determined smile.

"One ticket to Paris, please," he said, fishing around in his pockets for the _kopecks_ that were his entire life's savings, carefully scrimped together after ten years of destitution.

The man behind the gate frowned. "Exit visa," he demanded, holding out his hand.

"Exit visa?" echoed Arty, confused. He had not a single paper to his name, not even a birth certificate, which was fitting, as he had no idea what his birth name was.

"No exit visa?" The man gave a disbelieving laugh as other people in line shook their head at Arty's stupidity. "Then, no ticket. Next!"

Arty found himself rudely shoved aside as the next patron hurriedly made their way forward. His shoulders slumped. So much for his brilliant plan.  
He stood rather stunned for a moment, uncertain what to do next. This particular hiccup in his lifelong scheme hadn't really occurred to him. To be faced with rejection so early on left him rather taken aback.

Arty stumbled toward the curb outside the station, feeling lost. He had no papers to fall back on - none that he could obtain, anyway - and he hadn't thought about having to spend the _kopecks_ he'd saved on renting a room or buying food. In fact, if he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't really thought his plan through past buying a ticket. Arty groaned. Had he really thought it would all be that simple?

Sitting heavily on the curb, he rested his head on his hands again, disappointed. Of course he'd thought it would be that simple. Up until now, the plan to run off to Paris had been a daydream - a fantasy - and what earthly use did details like food and lodgings and travel papers have in fantasies?

Sighing, he closed his eyes, trying to think. Perhaps he could sneak out of the country on foot? Or stow away on the train somehow? He frowned - he knew very little about the security such transportation had, but surely the authorities would not take kindly to his attempts to steal his way onboard. He didn't relish the thought of landing in prison so very soon after escaping from his last jail, of sorts.

"Flower?"

Startled, Arty opened his eyes, finding himself staring up at a girl about his age. She had dark curly hair that fell in a slightly unruly mess about her cheeks, her smile kind and open. Her dress was worn, and smudged with dark stains across the apron, patched in the places where time and use had ripped it. A basket of flowers was hooked around her elbow.

Her smile widened as she held one of the flowers out to him - a pitiful, yellow thing that looked to have been crushed and stepped on at one point - an expectant look upon her face.

Arty cleared his throat, giving a small shake of his head. "No. Thank you."

"It's on me," she offered, her smile softening as she thrust the pathetic-looking plant toward him. "You looked like you could use some cheering up." Her eyes widened, "Not that I'm telling you how you should look, obviously— It's— You're perfectly free to look however you please, that is, I just thought you seemed a little sad. I'm not trying to be nosey or anything, I mean— Of course, you don't have to tell me—"

"No, it's— Thank you," he said, quickly accepting the flower out of pity, eager to stop her rambling. He tucked the droopy thing into the buttonhole of his coat, gesturing to the spot beside him. She sat.

"No one likes the yellow ones, anyways," she said, tucking her skirts around her. "I'm Gwen, by the way."

"Arty," he said, holding out his hand to her.

“Arty?” she repeated, her head tilting as her brow creased slightly.

“It’s short for Artem,” he said, frowning a bit. What was wrong with his name?

Gwen’s eyes widened again, realising she’d offended him.

"Oh, no— No, it's— It's a very lovely name," she assured him, flushing. "I wasn't trying to— It suits you."

Arty found himself smiling at her bumbling attempts to appease him. There was something infectious about her smile that made it impossible to be mad at her.

"It's fine," he said. He had bigger problems than someone thinking his name silly, after all. One of those problems chose that moment to name itself, his stomach giving a loud growl of protest at the lack of food he'd ingested recently.

"Oh!" Gwen gasped, concerned. "Have you not eaten? That is, I wondered if you— I mean, you look—" she gestured to his clothes as she fished about in her pockets. "I think I have some money—"

"I can't let you do that," he said, shaking his head with a frown. From the looks of things, she wasn't all that much better off than him.

"No, really," she said, searching the pockets of her apron. "I'm rather hungry myself, so we can both get something. I should have an extra _kopeck_ or more somewhere - a lady this morning bought five flowers off of me." As she spoke, the contents of her surprisingly large pockets were emptied onto her lap, revealing a thick wad of drawing paper with a sketch of a train on the top sheet.

"Hang on, did _you_ do these?" he asked, pulling the bundle of creased drawings toward himself.

"Oh, they're nothing, really," Gwen protested, moving to hide them again, but he pulled them out of her reach.

The papers themselves were mismatched and of various sizes, wrapped together with twine to keep them from separating. Flipping through the drawings, he saw smudged images of children playing, of a wrinkled old woman, of the buildings in the marketplace, and several of a man with kind eyes like Gwen’s.

"These are amazing," he said, looking at her again.

She blushed, looking down at the sketches. "I'm not all that good, actually. I've never really studied it or anything - it's mostly for my own enjoyment." She paused as he reached an outline of a pretty girl that looked to have been done on the corner of an old ratty newspaper. "Paper's dreadfully expensive," she offered, embarrassed. "I think I spend more money on it than on food most weeks."

Impressed, he handed the drawings back as his stomach gave another loud growl.

Smiling, Gwen held out a palm full of _kopecks_. "Come on. We can grab something and eat at my place." She stood, shaking out her skirts.

Arty shook his head, standing as well. "Why are you being so nice? You don't even know me."

"You looked like you could use a friend," she said. "I don't think a person can have enough of those."

*  *  *

"We're ruined."

"Don't be so dramatic, Merlin," Gaius scolded as they turned the corner of the street, making their way to the old palace.

"I'm serious. We are well and truly done for," Merlin groaned, kicking at the sidewalk as they walked. Forty-three actors and not a single one fit to play Arthur. Not a one. Weeks of planning and they were nowhere. All of their savings had been put into this - into renting the theatre, bribing the right people for anecdotes about the Petrovins, getting their hands on photographs and portraits and maps of the family's lineage - all for the education of their would-be Arthur. All for nothing.

"There's no use whining about it," said Gaius in a tone of voice that told Merlin he was inwardly rolling his eyes at him. Or, perhaps, not so inwardly.

He frowned, offended. "I'm not whining!"

The disbelieving eyebrow Merlin received in return spoke volumes. Sometimes he wondered if Gaius spent his spare time practicing those expressions in his mirror.

"This is a very delicate job. Finding the perfect body double for the grand duke could take months," Gaius said sensibly. "The best we can do is try again another day."

"Yeah, right. _Try again_ ," he mimicked darkly. "At this rate, the prince will be dead before we can collect the reward money!"

The look Gaius shot him was chastising.

"Sorry," he mumbled, knowing his friend to be quite close in age to Uther. It was hard to remember sometimes, sharp as Gaius was in his advanced years. He'd been the same way for as long as Merlin had known him.

Alone on the streets at the tender age of nine and desperate for cash, Merlin had foolishly tried his hand at pick pocketing, forgetting about his own natural clumsiness. The older man had made for his first and last target, catching his wrist before he could even wrap his hand around the coins in Gaius' pocket. He'd sternly admonished Merlin for resorting to the "basest form of thievery" before his expression had softened, lingering on bony wrists and sallow cheekbones. He'd given Merlin a crust of bread and offered him an opportunity to try his hand at a far more dignified means of money-making.

Gaius, it had turned out, had a knack for detail, and little to no scruples about putting it to good use. Merlin had learned all he could from him, from making phony passports to tricking a person into giving him what he wanted while making it sound like their idea. They'd run dozens of scams together over the years, and Gaius had looked after him as best he could, even occasionally going hungry to ensure that Merlin had a full stomach. He'd been the best teacher and friend Merlin could ask for, even if he didn't always acknowledge it.

Shaking his head as he spotted the Winter Palace, Merlin sighed heavily.

"Maybe we should branch out," he suggested. "Try other cities. There's no rule that says we have to find our Arthur in St. Petersburg."

"I think that's the first sensible thing you've said all day," said Gaius dryly, eyeing him shrewdly. "We might try Moscow next. They'll have some new actors for us to reject, at the very least."

Merlin nodded his agreement. There was no point in sticking around there any longer. They'd leave first thing in the morning.

  

* * *

  
**Translations (for anyone who needs them):**  
_Rubles_ and _kopecks_ – Russian currency; 1 ruble = 100 kopecks.


	3. Chapter 3

"Wow," breathed Gwen, "So, you're going all the way to Paris to find them?"

Arty nodded. He'd followed her back to her small apartment to share a meal of stroganoff and had proceeded to tell her the tale of his life-long quest, from his arrival at the orphanage to his being denied a train ticket. He found it very easy to talk to Gwen, her smile encouraging and without judgement. She hadn't looked the least-bit cynical when he'd mentioned his memory loss, which was a refreshing change from the reaction he usually got. She had listened to his story with rapt attention, growing more and more interested with every word.

"To think," she said, getting up from the rickety table where they were seated to pace the one-room apartment in excitement. "You could be the long-lost son of a famous writer who ran off to seek their fortune in France. Or a baron and baroness who fled during the revolution!" She shook her head. "My parents were so boring compared to all of that."

"Were?" Arty echoed.

Gwen's eyes darkened a bit. "My mother died when I was just a baby. My da’ said that's where I got my skill for drawing from. For a while, it was just me and da’, but he died from the sickness a few years ago. He was a blacksmith."

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling bad for asking. To his surprise, her smile brightened.

"It's all right," she assured him. "I know they wouldn't want me to dwell on it."

She sat again, grabbing the small pot she'd boiled their water in.

"Still, it all sounds so exciting!" she gushed, refilling his cup. "It's very brave of you, running off on an adventure to find your family. I wish I had that kind of spirit. And to Paris! I've always wanted to go someplace lovely like that - they say it's more beautiful than you can imagine. It'd be a nice change from this place."

He puffed his chest slightly, emboldened by her assessment. He was being rather brave trying to look for them himself, wasn't he?

"I've learned all about Paris," he said knowledgeably, fuelling her interest. "About the sights and the buildings. I think my parents could have moved there to search for work."

"How were you planning on finding them?" she asked, entranced. "I mean, where did you think to start once you got to Paris?"

Arty faltered, his mind going blank. "Er..."

"Of course, it's a rather big city," she continued, oblivious to his hesitation. "And ten years have passed, so they might have moved on, or—"

She looked up, distressed. "Oh, I'm sorry— I didn't mean to imply— Here, you've spent your whole life getting ready for this, so of course you have a plan."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Right. Of course."

Actually, as he was rapidly discovering, he had no plan at all. But Arty wasn’t about to tell her that, not when she appeared so impressed by his tale. The seriousness of his situation was slowly beginning to hit him, and for whatever reason, he didn't want to lose his new friend's confidence in him.

"You should come with me," he blurted unexpectedly.

"What?" said Gwen, sounding just as surprised as he felt.

"You should come with me to Paris," Arty repeated, more resolute this time. The more he thought on it, the more he warmed to the idea. He enjoyed her company, and the thought of jetting off across the continent to a strange country all by himself was becoming increasingly foreboding. If anything, having a companion who was used to being on their own would aid him in his quest.

She shook her head, getting up from the table again. "I couldn't just leave like that," she said slowly, though her eyes betrayed that she was considering it.

"Why not?" he asked, standing as well. "You said yourself you're not all that attached to Russia. It would be an adventure. You could just take off and start over new."

She worried her lip, looking around her small apartment, to the drawings that papered the peeling walls in lieu of furniture. "Well ..."

"You don't have an adventure sitting around waiting, do you?" Arty reasoned sensibly, seeing her resolve slipping. "And Paris is full of artists. All the books talk about them. Think how much you could learn in a place like that!"

A slow smile blossomed on her face as he spoke, her eyes hopeful as they met his again.

"All right," she agreed, excitement seeping into her voice. "I'll do it."

Arty grinned. Already, things were looking up. With the two of them working together, he'd be sure to find his family in no time.

He deflated slightly, remembering himself. "Though, that still doesn't solve the problem of how we're going to get ourselves to Paris."

Gwen considered it for a moment.

"Well," she hesitated, furrowing her brow. "There may be one way...."

He looked up in interest. "Really?"

She nodded, leaning toward him with a quick glance over her shoulder.

"I've heard about a man," she confided quietly, as though afraid of being overheard, "named Merlin. Apparently, he can arrange travel visas under any name for a small price."

Arty blinked. It hardly sounded legal, but it didn’t seem like they had any other option. Hope bloomed inside him as he pulled his scarf around his neck again. "How can we find him?"

* * *

The Winter Palace was enormous, and appeared - for all intents and purposes - entirely abandoned. The entrances and windows had been shoddily boarded up, the courtyard deserted. Arty stared up at it hesitantly, feeling as if he were invading a crypt.

Beside him, Gwen shivered slightly, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

Moving toward the nearest door, he peered between the slats of wood blocking their entrance, trying to see inside. It looked quite empty. With a sigh, he began tugging at the boards, slowly working them free from the doorframe.

"So, what does this Merlin look like?" he said between tugs, glancing back at Gwen. She bit her lip.

"I'm not sure, actually. I’ve never met anyone who’s actually seen him. But I've heard he stays here sometimes inside the old palace."

Arty frowned, pulling harder on the top board. Why would a person want to stay in such a lonely building? Even the opulence of living in a palace would be lost with the somewhat tragic history of the place, wouldn't it?

The nails pulled free of the frame at last, the boards coming loose in his hands. Tossing them onto the snow dusted stone, he looked at Gwen.

"Ready?"

She nodded, looking about as eager as he felt. Cautiously, he stepped inside.

The air inside was like a tomb, as still as the dead. They were in a large hall, its ceiling high and decorated with strips of ornate moulding, the blocked-out windows coated with a thick layer of dust and grime. The few pictures that adorned the walls had been ripped and torn, their frames chipped and scratched and hanging crookedly. Arty took a step and heard a crack beneath his foot, glancing down to see the shattered remains of a set of elegant plates, thrown haphazardly to the floor.

"The revolutionaries ransacked the place after the siege," Gwen told him quietly, huddling close. She looked uncomfortable, her gaze lingering on a fallen chandelier. The sooner they found this Merlin fellow, the better.

They wandered through the hallways, each room bringing with it new signs of devastation and neglect. Arty squinted at a cracked blue vase sitting on a table, something itching at the back of his brain.

"This place is _enormous_ ," he said, staring up at the ceiling as they walked. "How are we ever going to find anyone in here?"

"We could try calling his name," Gwen suggested half-heartedly. Unsurprisingly, neither of them did so. It seemed wrong to shout in such an oppressively quiet place.

"Oh," she said a moment later, aghast, looking through a doorway into what had probably been the library, judging from the mess of destroyed books carpeting the floor. She stepped inside, kneeling to pick up the tattered remains of a bound volume. "What a waste," she sighed to herself.

Arty looked over his shoulder, something at the end of the hallway catching his eye. Seeing that Gwen was otherwise preoccupied, he walked toward it, finding himself face-to-face with a rather large wooden door. He knew something important was on the other side, though why that was he couldn't say. Curious, he turned the golden handle and pushed, but it wouldn't budge.

 _This door always sticks_ , he thought exasperatedly, jiggling the handle before pausing with a puzzled frown. _That was strange_. He had no idea where the thought had come from.

Shrugging it off, he pushed his shoulder against the door until it opened, revealing a large, empty room with marble columns lining the sides. Dust-painted chandeliers hung high overhead, many of the crystals cobwebbed and broken. Several of the large windows had been smashed, glass coating the floor like sparkling diamonds.

Arty stared at it all in curiosity, feeling strangely captivated. He ran his hand along one of the columns, the marble cool under his palm. He walked a small circle around the floor, glass crunching beneath his feet as he stared up at the high ceiling. There was something about this place....

* * *

Merlin sighed heavily, falling into one of the armchairs they'd salvaged from an old study while Gaius stoked the fireplace of the Malachite Room. The Winter Palace lived up to its name, prone to being rather cold and drafty in some areas in its decade of disrepair. While they technically had free reign of the place, they tended to stick to one corner of the palace during their stays.

Stretching tiredly, he fished about in his bag for something to appease his growling stomach. Secretly, the palace was his favourite of all their hideouts, probably for its familiarity, though he hadn't set foot in the servants' quarters since the siege. It felt like bad luck, somehow.

An image of Will came unbidden to his mind, and he wondered briefly what had happened to his old friend. He hadn't seen him since that night. Merlin hoped the older boy had been one of the handful of servants who'd made it successfully across the border, but he'd probably never know for sure.

"If you're done lazing about, I could use some help with dinner," Gaius said dryly, glaring in his direction. Sheepishly, Merlin got to his feet.

He started slicing the bread, shivering a bit as he did and silently pledging to allot a portion of their reward money to getting a place with a decent wood stove. They hadn't really discussed their plans for after the con - Gaius insisted it was tempting fate to count a payoff you didn't have yet - but he knew his friend was looking to retire from the forgery business and get a head-start on leading a quiet, respectable life.

Merlin's plans were far less straightforward, but ten million _rubles_ seemed like enough to grant him the freedom to do just about anything. He could travel, see what the rest of the world had to offer, or help Gaius get settled into his retirement. Maybe he'd even try his hand at respectable living....

"Really, Merlin, we're meant to eat the bread, not mop the floor with it," sighed Gaius from across the room.

Looking down, he blushed at the breadcrumbs he'd reduced their meal to with his daydreaming. "Sorry," he mumbled, sweeping the remains of the bread into a pile on the table.

"Sometimes, I wonder what's going on in that head of yours," his companion continued in his best hard done-by voice. "But then I realise that it's a question best left to science."

"Wait." Merlin interrupted what was sure to be a lengthy recitation of his faults, standing up straighter. "Do you hear something?"

"I'm really not in the mood for one of your—"

"I'm serious," he cut in, going to the door. "I think there's someone else in here."

* * *

Arty winced, nerves on edge from the loud clang of the candleholder he'd knocked over, the noise of it still echoing throughout the hall.

He jerked as the door on the far side of the hall swung open.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

His first instinct was to run - who knew what other cutthroat types hung out here? - but he stood his ground, remembering that Gwen was somewhere in the palace unawares. He folded his arms, giving the intruder his most intimidating expression. It turned out to be completely uncalled for, as he was soon face-to-face with one of the skinniest, least-intimidating people he'd ever met.

The man was about his age, with messy dark hair and a pair of the most ridiculous ears Arty had ever seen outside of the Russian circus.

"How'd you get in he—?"

The words seemed to die on the other man's tongue, along with his livid expression, replaced with a mixture of slack-jawed awe and surprise. Behind him, a much older man with long white hair and sharp eyes puffed his way toward them, halting in similar shock at the sight of Arty.

Arty shifted, uncomfortable under the outright stares the two strangers were giving him. He turned to the white-haired man, figuring him to be in-charge. "Are you Merlin?"

The question seemed to shake the dark-haired one from his stupor, his eyes immediately guarded. "Who wants to know?"

Ignoring him, Arty uncrossed his arms. "I need travel papers to Paris," he continued, still addressing the older gentleman in his politest tone - it wouldn't hurt to butter him up a little, given that he was rather short on money. "I heard that you were the one to go to."

The younger man's eyes narrowed a bit, unimpressed with the brush-off. " _I'm_ Merlin, and that's my partner," he said, stepping in front of the older man. "And you are?"

He paused, giving Merlin a once-over. He was hardly the sort of person you'd envision as a criminal mastermind, with his far-too-expressive eyes and rather unfortunate choice of wardrobe. Still, if he could help him get to Paris...

"Right. My name's Arty."

" _Arty?_ " echoed Merlin doubtfully.

Why did everyone have a problem with his name?

"It's short for Artem," he retorted tightly, sensing the unspoken insult. He was rather proud of his name - he'd picked it out himself at the orphanage, under Lada Fedorova's disapproving glare. It meant 'strong and healthy,' and he’d thought it rather fitting. If Arty knew nothing else about himself or his past, he could at least see that he was both of these things. It wasn't a bad-sounding name, either - it had a nice sort of ring to it. Nicer than _Merlin_ , at any rate.

"I see," Merlin replied, looking no more impressed. "And is there a last name to go with that, _Arty_?" he asked, somehow managing to make his name sound like the worst kind of insult.

Arty had always hated this part. Gwen had taken to his story well-enough, but he couldn't help but feel like an idiot whenever he explained his past to another person.

"I don't have one," he said matter-of-factly, forcing his expression to be neutral. "It sounds ridiculous, but I have no memory of who I was before I was eight."

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw both men's eyes light up a bit.

"I see," Merlin replied carefully, stepping forward. "No memory at all?"

"No." Arty set his jaw, daring either of them to laugh, but neither man did. Instead, he saw them exchange a meaningful glance.

The older man spoke up for the first time. "And what business do you have in Paris?"

"I'm going to find my family," he replied guardedly.

This time, he knew he wasn't imagining it - both men's eyes sparkled with interest as Merlin put on a friendly grin.

"You know, as it happens, _we're_ going to Paris," he said, reaching into his pocket. "And we even have an extra ticket."

"Really?" Arty leaned forward eagerly. Maybe this would be easier than he’d thought.

"Yep," said Merlin, briefly flashing small pieces of paper before hiding them back inside his coat. "But, unfortunately, it's reserved. For him," he pointed behind Arty.

Turning, Arty frowned at a slashed portrait of the late Petrovin family. What was he playing at?

"You see, His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin is alive somewhere, and we're going to find him and bring him back to his grandfather, Prince Uther," the older man explained. "In Paris."

Merlin nodded, walking a circle around Arty. "You know, it's strange, but you even sort of look like him. You've got Igraine's eyes—"

"And Ector's build—" interjected his partner.

"—And you're the right age, too," finished Merlin, regarding Arty with a sort of foreign curiosity.

Arty frowned. Were they saying what he thought they were saying? "What? You think _I'm_ the grand duke?" he scoffed.

"It's a possibility," Merlin said with a carefree shrug of his shoulders. "Think about it - you have no memory of your old life—"

"—And no one has seen him since he was a child," completed the older man, stepping forward. "You want to find your family in Paris—"

"And his last remaining family is in Paris," Merlin smiled, guiding Arty toward the large portrait. "It seems like an awful lot of coincidence, don't you think?"

Arty stared up at the painting, most of the figures distorted and scratched, though the youngest grand duke remained largely intact in the bottom left corner of the frame. He shook his head - it was crazy.

Merlin clapped him on the back. "Well, we'd really like to help, but unfortunately, the ticket is for Arthur," he said regretfully, the two of them walking back to the far door they’d entered through.

Arty stared at the shredded remains of the portrait, tilting his head. There was a certain resemblance. In the eyes, and maybe the chin. If he squinted, he could almost pretend he was looking at a painting of his younger self. Almost...

He shook the thought away. He was no grand duke. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, fingering the few kopeks¬ he had to his name as he thought longingly of the tickets he'd glimpsed, an idea formulating in his head.

Maybe he wasn't the grand duke, but there was no reason for those two to know it, not if it meant a free ticket to Paris. All he'd have to do was get there, really - once the prince saw him, he'd know they'd brought the wrong man, and it wasn't as if Arty was intentionally deceiving him or anything. After all, there were a lot of coincidences surrounding his life and the grand duke's....

He looked back up at the portrait, dull painted eyes mirroring his own.

* * *

Merlin smirked to himself as they walked, resisting the urge to hum in delight. They’d finally caught a break. He'd never imagined that the perfect double for Arthur would just stroll into their hideout. And the memory loss? A stroke of genius! He'd be better than any actor - a man they could actually convince that he was the grand duke. Uther would eat it up.

Beside him, Gaius' eyebrow arched questioningly. "Why didn't you tell him about the con?"

He shook his head, "The idiot just wants to go to Paris. Why split the money three ways when we can keep it to ourselves?"

It was all going to work out perfectly. Things couldn't have been better if Merlin had planned them himself.

His partner looked unconvinced. "Aren't you worried he might try to run out on us once we bring him to France?"

"Nah," he whispered back. "I know the type. Once he agrees to come, he'll be as good as his word."

Gaius glanced back to where they'd left Arty, still staring at the portrait. "We're walking away too soon," he cautioned.

"It's fine," Merlin assured him, though he slowed his pace a little. Just enough to give Arty the chance to—

"Hey!"

Merlin grinned. Right on time.

"Hmm?" he replied dumbly, turning back with an expression of mild interest. "Sorry, can I help you with something?"

Arty looked determined, his jaw set as he sprinted toward them. "Okay, well, let’s just say I went along with you to see the prince. If I got there and he said I wasn't the grand duke, then it'd just be an honest mistake, right?"

"Sure," he agreed, smiling inwardly.

"And I'm just trying to find my family like the prince is, so it's not as if he could be angry with me for being wrong," Arty continued with the air of someone trying to self-justify their actions.

"Of course not," Gaius assured him.

Arty nodded, resolve in his eyes. He was just about to respond when the side door to the ballroom creaked open. "Arty?"

The three of them turned, staring at a young woman with curly dark hair and rather ragged clothes.

"Gwen!" Arty grinned, gesturing her over. Timidly, she went, eyeing Gaius and Merlin with curiosity.

Merlin frowned, annoyed at the interruption when they'd been just about to close the deal. Another person in the room could throw a cog in the works.

"Girlfriend?" he inquired testily, folding his arms.

The girl in question blushed, but Arty shook his head.

"This is Gwen," he introduced, before turning his attention to her with a smile. "It's all set. We're going to Paris."

Her eyes lit up and Merlin frowned. Wait, what?

"She's not coming with us," he argued, feeling like he'd just been double-played.

Arty glared. " _Yes_ , she is," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "She wants to go to Paris and so do I. If I'm going, she's going."

“We’ve only got the one ticket,” Merlin lied. The tickets he’d flashed earlier were fakes, of course. Getting train passes was no problem for them, but there was no reason for Arty to know that.

“So? Get another if you need a grand duke so badly,” said Arty, crossing his arms stubbornly. Damn. There went that strategy.

Gwen’s eyes were pleadingly honest. "I promise I won't be any trouble.”

Merlin folded his arms, refusing to give away the upper hand. They couldn't afford to take on any extra baggage, and another body meant another person who could mess things up. He needed to show them who was in charge. "Absolutely not."

Arty narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth for what promised to be a tremendously loud and stubborn retort—

"Give us a moment," Gaius interrupted, steering Merlin away from the pair. Begrudgingly, Merlin went, glaring daggers back at the blond brat as he walked.

His partner ducked his head a bit, keeping his voice low.

"She only wants to go to France, and our Arthur seems rather set on her coming. What harm can it do to have her along?" Gaius reasoned quietly. "I doubt the girl will raise much fuss."

Merlin eyed his friend shrewdly, recognizing his logic for the altruism it really was. "Anyone ever tell you you're a sentimental old codger?" he whispered back.

The older man's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Yes, I really must stop taking pity on young vagrants - far more trouble than they're worth," he replied with a meaningful look.

Chastened, Merlin sighed. "Fine. She can come. But I'm not splitting my share of the reward with her."

"You're a saint, Merlin," Gaius retorted dryly. "It's a wonder they haven't erected statues in your honour."

Turning back to the waiting pair, Merlin forced a bright smile on his face.

"Okay, it's settled. She can come, but only if she doesn't get in the way."

Arty's smug grin was almost enough to make him change his mind again, but he stayed strong, remembering the reward money.

Beside him, Gaius nodded his approval. "We leave first thing in the morning."

* * *

On another plane of existence, Nimueh lazed against the stone wall of her prison, glaring at the small bubble of space that had been all she'd known for the last ten years since the revolution. After her fall through the ice, she'd expected to pass on to the next world, her soul given in payment for the power she'd used against the Petrovins. Instead, she'd found herself confined to this place - a dark cave that had no entrance or exit - alone with her thoughts and with no end to her imprisonment in sight.

Her interest perked as the scrying bowl in the middle of the cave glowed to life for the first time. She'd tried on hundreds of occasions over the years to get it to work, but even the power she'd bartered from the Old Religion would not force it to show her the world outside of her prison. Now, the water rippled of its own accord, the image of a young man coming into focus.

Eagerly, Nimueh darted forward, hungry for a glimpse of the world she'd been separated from. Her excitement turned to anger as she easily recognised the face staring back at her.

"The grand duke lives?" she spat, gripping the edges of her stone scrying bowl. The cocky young man grinned in the water's reflection, the same arrogant glint in his eyes as his father. There was no mistaking that face. The face of the boy who had escaped her grasp a decade ago.

She dashed her hand against the water, dispelling the image.

"So, that is why I remain in Limbo," she grimaced. All this time, she'd thought that her exile to this plane was a result of her dying before the Old Ones could collect on their bargain for her soul. Now, things were clearer. She'd died before the curse could be fully carried out - the last of the Petrovin line had not been defeated, and so she clung to existence, stuck between that world and the next until such time that her vengeance could be completed.

Anger burned within her at the knowledge that _Velikii Kniaz_ Arthur had been alive all these years, living without care, while she'd fallen victim to her own curse, suffering the solitude of confinement and the bitter taste of revenge unfulfilled.

The red phial attached to her wrist hummed its agreement, feeding off her anger. She'd set things right. She'd finish what she'd started all those years ago.

After all this time, her hatred of the Petrovins still burned strongly within her, memories of the betrayal she'd suffered at their hands as fresh as if it were yesterday.

Nimueh had always had magic. From the time she'd been born, she'd been able to practice the arts that others learned only from years of study, the gift as natural to her as breathing. Her own mother had been disturbed by the ability, warning her not to reveal it for fear of retribution. She'd called it abnormal – perverse, even – but Nimueh had refused to believe that her magic was something to be feared. While others used their magic to harm, to amass power for themselves and to bring about destruction, she had sought to put her gifts to good use.

Travelling from town to town, she'd made her wages offering remedies to various sicknesses, helping those she could, though she done right by her mother in keeping the truth of her abilities a secret. Magic was still feared by many, and most would not take kindly to the presence of a sorceress.

Still, she could not help but feel that there was a greater purpose to her magic - something more than the life of wandering she'd found herself victim to. When news of _Tsarevitch_ Owain's strange illness made its way to Moscow - an illness no doctor could seem to cure - she'd set out immediately, seeking an audience with the tsar.

They had been cautious, at first, when she insisted on visiting with Owain alone, the room free from all attendants and even the tsar and tsaritsa themselves, but Nimueh had informed them that the healings she’d brought for the ailing heir were far too delicate to be disturbed by the presence of others. Reluctantly, they had agreed to her conditions, and she'd set about working her healings on the young _tsarevitch_.

The effects of her work were quickly realised. Within a few short days, Owain's colour and strength had begun to return. His illness was a serious one, likely to plague him all his life, but her efforts helped him through the worst of it. Nimueh’d made herself available to the royal family whenever they had need of her. They set her up in a small house near the palace and bid her to travel with them, always on-hand to administer her healings to Owain.

It had been the best time of her life. Finally, she'd found a calling for her gifts. Feeling at home with the royals, she’d found herself confided in by both husband and wife, and treated with awe by the children. She had found a purpose - a family, even, though her status as a commoner was never completely forgotten - and nothing had delighted her more than seeing the pleasure in Igraine and Ector's eyes as they beheld the renewed ruddiness of Owain's cheeks.

She had soon learned how misplaced her trust was.

It had been an otherwise unremarkable visit to _Tsarevitch_ Owain's chambers, the _tsaritsa_ and all attendants once again ushered out of the room, when a wayward maidservant - ill-informed of the healer's request for privacy - had stumbled in through a servant's entrance to find the sorceress placing an enchanted poultice under Owain's pillow.

The cries of fear and suspicion had sounded throughout the palace as she hastened to explain her altruistic notions to a staff of frightened attendants. In her naiveté, she had trusted that the family would understand and excuse her good intentions, but she had been wrong. _Tsaritsa_ Igraine, once her close friend, had rushed to shield young Owain from her, looking upon Nimueh with hatred and fear.

Accusations had swept across the country, as only scandals and witch hunts can. Some said that she had engineered Owain's mysterious sickness in order to indebt herself to the royal family; others insisted that she had bewitched the emperor, or that she sought to bring about the downfall of Imperial Russia from within the court itself.

In a fit of rage, _Tsar_ Ector cast her out of Russia and swore punishment upon any person caught aiding her. Abandoned and exiled from all she knew, she'd wandered the continent, thoughts of revenge brewing deep within her, pain and torment guiding her steps.

Her hatred brought her to the darkest forms of magic, seeking out those she had previously reviled. With only the desire to see her betrayers suffer as she had at the hands of the magic they feared so much, she'd bargained her soul for the power to destroy them.

Now, bound to this half-life by no more than a simple red vial - the symbol of her bargain, and source of her increased power - she knew only that her curse had to be completed. For ten years, she'd been confined to this prison, alone with her thoughts, never knowing what it was that she was waiting for. At long last, she would see the Petrovin line brought to ruin.

With a whispered spell, she brought the image of the grown grand duke back to the surface of the bowl, hatred burning in her eyes.

Arthur Petrovin would die.


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin sighed, stretching the kinks in his neck as the train whistle sounded.  
  
The train itself was nearly packed, with only a few empty compartments to be found. They didn't have many belongings between them - just a small bag for Gwen and two suitcases between Gaius and himself, as Arty had no real possessions to speak of. Gwen had immediately staked out a spot near the window, mumbling something about "natural light" that Merlin hadn't quite caught, pulling out a ratty bundle of papers, a dull knife, and a stick of charcoal. Gaius had settled beside her, his nose buried in an old book, leaving Merlin stuck with Arty.  
  
Tickets to Paris had been easy enough for Merlin to procure - despite what he'd implied to Arty the previous day - but the visas had been another matter. Gaius had been up most of the night, scratching out travel papers for their new companions in the dim firelight of the Winter Palace where the four of them had spent the night.  
  
Merlin had watched him for a while, his offer to help predictably shot down. It had been many years, but the memory of Merlin’s first attempt at forgery still hung heavily between them. He'd been so proud of himself, spending hours copying the fake birth certificate onto the correct paper for Gaius' inspection, only to realise he'd spelt Lancelot's name wrong. The money to redo it had come from his own savings, and he'd had to endure weeks of mocking by Gaius, who still insisted on calling him "Luncelot" whenever he did something particularly stupid. After that, he'd left the forging mostly to Gaius, preferring to dedicate himself to the business side of things.  
  
Merlin sighed, trying to find a more comfortable position on the crowded bench.  
  
Arty was quickly displaying a complete inability to sit still, his constant fidgeting annoying Merlin to no end. If he wasn't shuffling his feet against the floor, he was fingering a thin gold chain around his neck, the links clinking against each other in a decidedly irritating way. When one of Arty's knees knocked against him for the fourth time, he snapped.  
  
"Knock it off, would you?" he said, glaring daggers at the other man.  
  
Arty's expression turned sour. "These seats are too small."  
  
"Well, the rest of us are doing just fine with them, so get used to it. Grand dukes don't fidget."  
  
"Really? Met a lot of grand dukes, have you?" Arty retorted sarcastically.  
  
"Look," Merlin sighed, not particularly eager to divulge his history this early in the trip, "The fact is, I know a lot more about the subject than you do, so mine is the opinion we'll be going with. What's that you're playing with anyways?"  
  
"Nothing," Arty said, tucking the chain back under his shirt.  
  
Merlin "hmphed", glancing across the compartment at Gaius' disapproving frown. He shrugged. What? It wasn't his fault that Arty was annoying. Gaius's glare only grew more disapproving, causing Merlin to sigh again. They needed Arty on their side for the con to work, and if that meant being nice to the jerk, then he'd have to go along with it.  
  
He closed his eyes, trying to come up with a safe subject to discuss.  
  
As it turned out, Arty beat him to it.  
  
"So, what is it you _do_ , exactly?" he asked, glancing sideways at him. "When you're not searching out grand dukes, that is."  
  
"Do?" Merlin echoed.  
  
The other man rolled his eyes. "Yes, you know, your job? Gaius makes the forgeries, so what does he need you for?"  
  
Merlin distinctly thought he heard a muffled snort from the seat across from him, but he chose to ignore it, focusing his anger on Arty.  
  
"Is this your idea of small talk?"  
  
Arty shrugged. "It's a long train ride."  
  
Merlin looked away. "I set up the jobs," he replied testily, folding his arms.  
  
"And that's hard, is it?" Arty mocked, surveying him with fake interest.  
  
"Harder than mooching off other peoples' charity, yeah," Merlin sniped.  
  
The tactic worked as he'd known it would. Arty's eyes darkened considerably, his mouth a thin line. "I don't need charity."  
  
"Of course you don't," Merlin mocked back, digging about in his suitcase for something to read. Arty "hmph"ed beside him, turning to face the window. They rode the next half hour in blessed silence.

* * *

Arty sighed, leaning his head against the window. The novelty of the train ride had worn off after the first hour, leaving him rather bored. Gaius was still reading - some ancient tome on medicinal cures that looked to have been pilfered from the library of the Winter Palace - and Gwen was busy with her drawing, somehow managing to keep her lines straight even with the motion of the car. Unlike the others, Arty had no activity to occupy his attention, and he hated sitting around doing nothing.  
  
They'd just passed the border into Poland when Gaius got up for a walk through the cars, citing a need to stretch his legs. Merlin stretched a bit himself, reaching into his suitcase as though a thought had just occurred to him.  
  
"Here." He tossed a small booklet onto Arty's lap and one onto Gwen's as well.  
  
"What's this?" Arty said, inspecting it, the paper stiff beneath his fingers.  
  
"Your new exit visa."  
  
He frowned as he reached the page with his personal information on it.  
  
"You made my last name Durakov?" he demanded loudly, staring at the visa in disbelief.  
  
Merlin shrugged, doing a very bad job of hiding his grin. "You said you didn't have one, so I had to improvise."  
  
" _Artem Dracovin Durakov_ ," he read. "I sound ridiculous!"  
  
"No change there, then," Merlin muttered under his breath. Arty glared. "Look, the important thing is it'll get us across the border," he said sensibly.  
  
"You called me a simpleton!" said Arty, brandishing the visa like a madman.  
  
"Well, I had to make it believable," the other man reasoned smugly, leaning back against the seat, still looking far too pleased with his own joke.  
  
Arty glowered, tossing the visa in his bag and crossing his arms as he turned to glare out the window. Of all the stupid pranks to pull. He'd have to present that visa at every passport check, looking like a complete idiot. Jealously, he glanced across the aisle at Gwen, who'd had no such complaints about _her_ travel papers.  
  
She caught his eye. "It's not that bad, Arty," she assured him quietly, guessing his thoughts. "Most people probably won't even notice it where we’re going."  
  
He shrugged begrudgingly, conceding her point. True, most people hardly gave a second thought to the meanings of surnames. It wasn’t like they’d spent weeks studying books of names and their definitions like he had, trying to find one that felt familiar. Still, it was a cheap shot for Merlin to take.  
  
Gwen raised her eyebrows, gesturing toward Merlin with an expectant look on her face. He sighed again, glancing sideways at the other man. If there was any chance of them making it to France without killing each other, it would obviously be up to Arty to extend the olive branch.  
  
"So, are you going to miss it?" he asked, rather politely, in his opinion. The semi-glare he received in return was completely unwarranted.  
  
"Miss what?" Merlin asked, bored.  
  
Arty shrugged. "Russia."  
  
The other man shook his head. "Not really. It's just a country. Russia or France doesn't make much difference to me."  
  
He frowned. "Not even a little bit?" he pushed, shaking his head a bit in confusion. Sure, Gwen had expressed little regret about leaving all she'd known behind, but he'd still seen her sniffle a bit when the train left the station in St. Petersburg.  
  
"Why should I miss it?" Merlin said exasperatedly, turning in his seat. "It's just a place I used to live."  
  
"So, you must be planning on making France your new home, then," Arty concluded with a nod, the idea making sense to him. It was what _he_ was doing, after all.  
  
"What _is_ it with you?" wondered Merlin, rolling his eyes. " _No_ , I don't plan on making France my home. Not everyone needs to be stuck down in one place, you know."  
  
The concept was foreign to Arty, and he frowned. How could anyone see a home as being “stuck down”? A home was where a person belonged.  
  
"Well, if you're not going to find a home there," he continued, nonplussed, "What will you do?"  
  
Merlin glared. "What is this, an interrogation? I don't want to talk about it, all right?"  
  
He turned away, leaving Arty fed up with the brush-off.  
  
"Look, what _exactly_ is your problem with me?" he demanded, unfolding his arms.  
  
" _Me?_ " Merlin shot back, scowling. "You haven't stopped being a pain since we left St. Petersburg."  
  
Arty barked out a laugh. "You must be joking. I'm not the one refusing to have any sort of polite interaction."  
  
"No," countered Merlin, standing up. "You're the one who keeps sticking his nose in other peoples' business."  
  
"As if I cared _one bit_ about your boring life," Arty retorted, standing as well. "I might as well try and strike up an intelligent conversation with an elephant. At least its ears would be less distracting to look at."  
  
Merlin's face flushed red, his eyes narrowing dangerously.  
  
Gwen watched the exchange silently, her gaze flitting back and forth between Arthur and Merlin as her charcoal-covered fingers hovered over the page she'd been drawing on.  
  
The door to the compartment slid open, revealing their final travelling companion.  
  
"What's all this?" Gaius inquired, glancing between the pair, who stood frozen, identical expressions of anger on their faces. Arty straightened.  
  
"Gaius, remove him from my sight!" he demanded regally, glaring at Merlin. If they wanted a grand duke, they could have one.  
  
Merlin threw up his hands in exasperation. "You don't have to ask me twice!"  
  
With that, he stormed from the compartment, grabbing his coat as he went. Gaius hesitated a moment before following, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.  
  
Arty huffed, plopping back down onto his seat. Across the aisle, Gwen was watching him with a strange expression.  
  
"What?" he asked, a bit more snappish than he'd meant to.  
  
She shook her head quickly, apparently embarrassed to have been caught.  
  
"Nothing, it's— Nothing," she stammered, turning back to her drawings.  
  
Sighing, Arty tilted his head against the seatback to look out at the passing countryside.  
  
_You're doing this to get to France,_ he reminded himself, his mouth twisting downwards at the thought of having to spend the rest of the trip with _Merlin_. At least Gaius wasn't so bad, and he still had Gwen to talk to. And once he got this grand duke business over with, he'd be free to start searching for his family.  
  
The thought made him smile. He closed his eyes, dreaming of Paris.

* * *

By the time Gaius caught up with him, Merlin had found a new compartment, and was angrily punching his coat into a comfortable pillow to sleep against.  
  
"There's no way we're going to be able to use him as the grand duke," Merlin said without preamble. "He's far too much of an idiot."  
  
"He certainly _sounds_ like royalty," Gaius mused, a hint of a smirk on his face.  
  
"Yeah," groused Merlin. "He'll have no trouble bossing people around, that's for sure."  
  
He gave up on the pillow, giving it another punch just for good measure before throwing himself onto the seat, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
Gaius took the seat across from him.  
  
"Merlin," he said hesitantly. "If this attraction of yours is going to be a problem..."  
  
Merlin bolted upright. " _Attraction?_ " he spluttered. "You think that I— Well, that's just— To _him_?"  
  
"It makes sense," his partner assured him. "He's attractive and headstrong, and bears a rather striking resemblance to the grand duke whom you've been pining over all these years—"  
  
" _I've not been 'pining'!_ " Merlin yelped indignantly, his ears reddening. The raised eyebrow Gaius gave him begged to differ.  
  
"What else would you call obsessively memorizing the history of the Petrovin family and every last known detail of the grand duke's life? I think you know more about Arthur than Uther does."  
  
"You've studied it, too!" he defended, crossing his arms again. "Besides, it's all about to pay off, isn't it?"  
  
Gaius sighed, folding his coat over his arm. "I suppose." He tilted his head. "All I'm saying, Merlin, that it's not uncommon to misplace certain feelings you have for another onto a person of similar quality and appearance," he said, his eyes softening a bit with understanding. "But if it's going to interfere with our work—"  
  
"It's not, because you've got it all wrong," Merlin insisted, staring him straight in the eye. There was absolutely no way he was displacing his feelings for the grand duke - _of which there were none!_ \- onto Arty.  
  
The older man nodded congenially.  
  
"My mistake," he said, sounding more amused than repentant, in Merlin's opinion. Merlin glared.  
  
"Just go make sure that our visas are in order, would you?" he said, shoving his coat into the corner of his seat again. Train travel was far more uncomfortable than it needed to be.  
  
He didn't look up as Gaius left, falling back onto the seat again to stare up at the ceiling. _Ridiculous.¬_ Gaius was going soft in his old age, all right. As if he'd ever confuse the grand duke with _Arty_ of all people - Arty who didn’t have a single refined bone in his body! Arty who, while bearing a certain resemblance to Arthur, had none of his grace or ease. Arty, who was most certainly the biggest brat he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting.  
  
Merlin scowled, turning on his side. For such a big payoff, this job certainly wasn't coming easily. The sooner they got to France, the better.

* * *

Deep in her prison, Nimueh glared over the contents of her scrying bowl, watching as the grand duke relaxed on the train, hardly a care in the world. Her eyes narrowed at his easy demeanour. She'd see that Arthur never reached France - there would be no tearful reunion between him and his precious, meddling grandfather.  
  
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the spell. It'd been many years since she'd attempted such a powerful work, and it would need her full attention.  
  
Taking a sharpened stone, Nimueh pricked her finger. The blood dripped slowly into the water below, crimson diluting and taking shape within the bowl.  
  
" _Loppe_ ," she intoned, holding her red vial by its cord, watching as it glowed to life. The water burned and hissed inside the bowl, the drops of blood slowly transforming into ghost-like red spiders, taking shape along the snow-covered track.  
  
She held out her hand. " _Ābrēotan_."  
  
The spiders began crawling, climbing quickly over the moving train, unnoticed by the patrons within. No one would see them but her.  
  
Nimueh bid them toward the front car, watching with perverted pleasure as they set the engine aflame, the train picking up speed.

* * *

Gaius made his way through the cars, shaking his head. For all that Merlin made a wonderful con artist, he never could lie very well - at least, not to those who knew him. Many a night, Gaius had awoken to find his young charge bent over the small treasure box from the palace, his fingers brushing against the engravings. Though Merlin had never shared more than the bare minimum about his time as a servant in the palace, Gaius knew there was a story to tell, and that the jewelled box was more than just a flash of treasure and opulence.  
  
He sighed. Merlin had been a faithful companion for ten years, but he knew that a life such as theirs was not healthy for the boy. He dedicated all of his time to their work. Never once had he made any friend besides Gaius, and he had found even fewer romantic interests. Gaius fully supported any endeavour that would grant Merlin the life a man his age deserved, but it was unfortunate that the first apparent chance of that happening would occur during the biggest job of their collective careers.  
  
Glancing out the window as he walked, he shook his head again. Of course, Arty appeared to be as stubborn as Merlin, so there was a chance nothing would come of it. At any rate, this promised to be a rather eventful trip.  
  
He nodded to a married couple in the walkway, pulling out the travel papers he'd finished the night before. Not his best work, perhaps, given the rush, but they would do.  
  
"Illya, where are our visas?" the woman pestered her husband, spotting the conductor making his way up the aisle. The husband rolled his eyes, handing her a red booklet with gold printing on the outside. She opened it, ready for the conductor to inspect, black ink jumping off the page.  
  
Gaius froze, his gaze falling to the red-inked visas in his hands. He was truly falling behind in his years to let a mistake like that slip past him. Time was he would have known the government’s intentions to alter the appearance of an official document before they themselves were aware of the change. Perhaps Merlin was correct in his desire to leave the con artistry business behind. It would certainly mean less stress.  
  
"Travel papers!" the conductor shouted from the front of their car.  
  
Hurriedly, the older man made his way back past the couple to Merlin's compartment, sliding the door closed behind him.  
  
"Merlin, get up," he ordered, knowing very well that his young companion was feigning sleep. "They've changed the ink on the visas. Our forgeries are no good. We're going to have to make a run for it."  
  
Merlin's eyes shot open, alert. "Find us a place to hide," he told Gaius, speedily pulling on his coat and reaching for his bag. "I'll go fetch His Grace."

* * *

Gwen was still seated by the window, idly sketching figures on her paper when he found their compartment again.  
  
She stood as Merlin entered, frowning at the urgency in his expression. "Merlin? What is it?"  
  
"We have to move. Get your things together," he replied, his gaze falling to Arty, who'd fallen asleep on his seat. "Gaius will meet you outside."  
  
To her credit, she didn't question him, quietly gathering her charcoal and pulling on her coat and scarf. Merlin nodded to himself - at least one of their new companions had a head on their shoulders.  
  
He crouched beside the orphan’s seat.  
  
"Arty? Arty! Come on, get up!"  
  
He shook the other man harshly, and was promptly rewarded with an elbow to the face.  
  
" _Ow!_ " he yelped, clutching his nose in pain. "What the—!"  
  
"What's going on?" Arty mumbled sleepily, having no regard for the injury he'd just inflicted.  
  
Merlin frowned, curbing the desire to grab one of the seat cushions and smother the other man with it. "Change of plans. We've been given new accommodations," he lied. Anything to get him moving faster.  
  
Arty sat up lazily, putting on his coat and taking his sweet time about it. "How come?"  
  
"Does it matter? Just hurry up, would you," he barked, still cupping his wounded nose and resisting the urge to kick something. "You paranoid bastard – was that really necessary? I think you might've broken it."  
  
The other man scoffed, an amused smirk on his arrogant face as he followed Merlin out of the compartment. "Don't be such a girl, Merlin. It's hardly life-threatening."  
  
Gaius met them out in the corridor, his eyes flitting to where the conductor was still making the rounds. "This way," he urged, leading them toward the front of the train. They crossed into the next car, quickly hurrying down the aisle, Merlin glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone had noticed their abrupt departure. They'd need to get off at the next station, but hopefully they'd manage to stay hidden until then. He and Gaius couldn't afford any trouble with the authorities.  
  
They slid open the door to the next car, finding it stacked head-to-toe with luggage. Great.  
  
"It'll have to do," Gaius sighed, setting down his suitcase.  
  
"Our new accommodations are in the _baggage car_?" Arty drawled, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "There wouldn't happen to be something wrong with our exit visas, would there, _Mer_ lin?"  
  
"Of course not, _Your Highness_ ," Merlin replied sarcastically. "I just thought this would be a nice change of scenery. You know, enjoy the view." He gestured to the dirty luggage that surrounded them, rolling his eyes. "We hit a small snag. We'll get off at the next stop, but in the meantime, we need to keep a low profile, so I suggest you make your royal ass comfortable."  
  
Arty's eyes narrowed for a fight, but Gwen cut him off.  
  
"Er ... Are we _supposed_ to be going this fast?" she asked nervously, gesturing to the engine car ahead of them.  
  
The others paused, frowning - sure enough, the train did seem to be moving faster than before, practically whipping along the snow-covered track. As one, they moved to the end of the car, sliding the door open to peer around the coal bin that separated them from the locomotive.  
  
Merlin's eyes widened. There was orange light flickering from the front of the train, far more smoke billowing toward them than should have been necessary.  
  
"Something's wrong," he shouted over the noise of the engine, feeling the train give a small lurch as they rounded a wide curve in the track.  
  
"Stay here, I'll check it out," Arty said, stepping across the cars to the ladder on the coal bin.  
  
He frowned, "Wha— Hey!"  
  
It was too late - the other man had already disappeared over the top of the car, leaving Merlin scowling. It figured that Arty would be one of those annoyingly heroic rough, tough, save-the-world types. Always showing off.  
  
They waited, gripping the sides of the doorway as the train gave another lurch. It wouldn't take much to derail them at this speed, and they certainly weren’t slowing down.  
  
"What do you think it is?" Gwen asked, looking worried.  
  
Merlin shook his head. "Might just be a malfunction. They're probably trying to fix it."  
  
Arty landed in front of them, alarmed. "No one's driving the train," he informed them, pushing through the door back to where they'd come in. "We need to warn the other passengers - we'll have to jump."

* * *

Nimueh grinned, watching as the locomotive continued to pick up speed. Her spiders covered the train, invisible to the grand duke and his companions. She raised her hand again, letting the phial dangle over the water.  
  
" _Sundrian_."  
  
At once, the spiders scurried to the end of the railcar, unhooking the passenger carriages. She watched the four travellers’ eyes widen in horror as they reached the door too late, finding themselves cut off from the rest of the train.  
  
_"What do we do now?" the girl asked.  
  
The dark-haired man turned, determined. "We'll unhook ourselves from the engine. We can just coast to a stop."_  
  
_A good try_ , she thought. Smirking, Nimueh set her spiders on the other half of the car, a small burst of her magic flowing through them, melting the trailer hooks together, preventing any attempt to separate the two.  
  
"Don't fight it, Arthur," she mocked, delighting in watching their fruitless efforts to escape. "You'll be with your family soon enough."

* * *

Gaius pushed the door open again, looking down at the hooks connecting the two cars. Merlin stepped out past him, placing a foot on either car as he bent over the hooks, trying to yank them apart. To his surprise, they appeared to be welded together.  
  
"It's not working! I need something to pry it with!" Merlin yelled to the others, struggling to keep his balance, Gaius' hand darting out to help him stay upright.  
  
Gwen handed him one of two crowbars, kneeling in the doorway of the car as she worked with him to try and pry the hooks apart. Behind them, Arty scowled, looking around.  
  
"There's not enough time. Maybe we can still jump," he shouted.  
  
Merlin paused to look up doubtfully at the scenery whipping past them. There was a death wish if he'd ever seen one.  
  
"How about you go first and we'll follow," he offered, glancing up at the other man.  
  
Arty frowned. "Well, what would you suggest?"  
  
He clanked his crowbar against the hooks, hoping to knock them loose, Gwen's face screwed up in concentration as she put her weight into prying at them. "Find me something to break this with!"  
  
"We don't have much longer," Gaius informed them, peering out between the two cars. "There's a sharp turn ahead on this route. We'll jump the tracks for sure."  
  
"I know," Merlin grunted, putting his back into it, the hooks refusing to budge. They'd have no choice but to jump, soon. Of all the ways he'd envisioned his own death, a train wreck certainly hadn't been one of them.  
  
Arty appeared over Gaius' shoulder again, a lit stick of dynamite in his hand. "Will this do?" he asked smugly.  
  
His eyes wide - where on earth had he managed to dig that up? - Merlin accepted it quickly, shoving it between the two hooks as Gaius pulled Gwen out of the way. The four of them bolted back inside the car, ducking behind a pile of crates, one of them marked for demolition. _Oh._  
  
Gwen braced against Arty, the rest of them huddling together against the explosion, the force of it sending them all flying. The front of the car was completely ripped away, allowing the cold wind to whip more freely inside.  
  
Merlin was the first to recover, his ears ringing as he checked on Gaius, who appeared shaken but unhurt. Gwen and Arty stood slowly, watching as the locomotive sped on ahead of them, no longer attached.  
  
"Now what?" Gaius asked, getting to his feet.  
  
"We've got plenty of track," Arty assured him. "We'll coast to a stop, like Merlin said."  
  
Merlin looked out at the track ahead of them, frowning. "I don't think that's going to work anymore," he said, spotting the curve Gaius had mentioned at a distance. The locomotive was still going too fast to make it safely. Once it jumped the track, they'd hit the wreckage for sure.  
  
He set his jaw, looking around the baggage car for something to slow them down. Spotting a length of chain, he quickly formed a plan.  
  
"Gwen - attach something heavy to the end of the chain. Something that will catch against the tracks," he ordered, racing toward the rear of the carriage as she nodded. "Gaius, give me a hand." He'd need a lot of luck to pull this off, but hopefully it'd be enough.  
  
Breathing out, he eased himself over the edge of the car, bracing his feet against the undercarriage as he tried not to touch the speeding track below them. He bit his lip, carefully sliding himself under the car, finding his grip.  
  
"All right, Gaius, hand me the chain," Merlin grunted, straining with the effort of keeping himself upright, his feet slipping against the undercarriage, the track a little too close for comfort.  
  
Arty's head appeared over the edge of the platform, chain in-hand and eyebrows raised.  
  
"Wha— Not you!" Merlin shouted. "Where's Gaius?"  
  
"He's busy," Arty shouted back, looking unimpressed. He shook the chain, dangling it just out of Merlin's reach. "Do you want this or don't you?"  
  
Scowling, Merlin grabbed the chain from the other man's hands, carefully reaching back until he had hooked it to the underside of the car. A piece of debris flew down the track toward him, Arty's hand darting out quickly to pull him up before he could be knocked under the train.  
  
Safely back aboard the coach, Merlin breathed out in relief as the debris bounced along the track behind them, quickly obliterated by the speed of its travel.  
  
Sighing in disappointment, Arty turned away, wiping his hands clean. "To think, that could've been you."  
  
Merlin scowled again - he was getting really sick of his arrogance. "I hope you're not expecting a thank you."  
  
Together, they pushed the rest of the chain over the edge, watching with guarded hope as the piece of metal rail Gwen had attached flew out behind them.  
  
"Hold on," Merlin cautioned loudly.  
  
The rail caught, hooking itself against the wood of the tracks, sending the car into another lurch. Their speed was too great for it to stop them completely, the chain pulling taut as the rail tore through the tracks, another explosion rocking the car. The four of them turned to look at the locomotive that had jumped the track just a few kilometres ahead, bursting into flames.  
  
"We have to go!" Arty shouted, getting to his feet. He and Gwen unlatched the side door of the car, pulling it open while Merlin and Gaius scrambled for their luggage. The passing forest of trees was still moving far too quickly for Merlin's liking, his stomach lurching at the thought of plunging to certain pain, if not death. He heard Gwen's gasp and Gaius' muttered curse beside him as they lined up side-by-side.  
  
"Go!"  
  
The four of them leapt, the snow bank doing little to cushion their fall as they each let out a loud grunt of pain, rolling along the ditch with their luggage. Merlin's face bashed against the stiff ground, his arm getting tangled up beneath him as the baggage car carried on without them into the wreckage. A third explosion filled the night sky, the car meeting with the damaged remains of the locomotive.  
  
Tumbling to an unpleasant stop, someone's foot caught beneath him, Merlin groaned, feeling dizzier and more broken than he could ever recall. The foot beneath him twitched, its owner letting out an appreciative moan of displeasure.  
  
Merlin closed his eyes, still feeling the motion of the train in his bones. He listened to the dying sounds of the explosion, trying not to think about how easily that could have been them.  
  
"I vote we rest here for a while," he mumbled against the ground.  
  
His three equally sore companions muttered their agreement.

* * *

Nimueh let out a scream of frustration, slamming her fists on the edge of the scrying bowl. She'd been so close! How could he have escaped?  
  
She dashed her hand across the water again, distorting the image. She had no desire to watch the grand duke gloat in his victory.  
  
Pacing the length of her prison, she scowled. She should have foreseen the trouble his companions would cause. Alone she would have defeated him for sure, but she'd underestimated the people he surrounded himself with. Just as before, Arthur relied on others to shield him, to prevent her from carrying out her revenge.  
  
She sneered. No one was invincible. She'd have to find a way to get him alone, away from anyone who could interfere.  
  
Sitting against the stone wall of the cave, she held the phial of the Old Religion before her, staring into its smoky red insides.  
  
"Enjoy your short reprieve, Your Highness. I will not rest until I see my curse completed."  
 

 

  
**Extra Translations (For anyone who’s interested):**

_Durakov_ – Surname, originates from the term ‘ _durak_ ’, meaning “fool”, “idiot”, or “simpleton”

_Loppe_ – ( _Old English_ ) Spider

_Ābrēotan_ – ( _Old English_ ) Destroy

_Sundrian_ – ( _Old English_ ) Separate


	5. Chapter 5

"Fantastic. So, the brilliant new plan is to _walk_ to Paris, is it?" Arty complained from the rear of the group.  
  
Merlin sighed impatiently, raising his eyes to the heavens. They had spent the night camped out in the miserable forest near where the train had derailed, and first light had granted them an early start on their trek across the countryside.  
  
They'd had a sufficient amount of food - the provisions they'd brought with them from St. Petersburg were more than enough to suffice for the evening and morning - and their coats had served as blankets in their makeshift shelter beneath the trees. Most of the previous day's snow had melted away as they walked, the air already much warmer than what they'd left behind in Russia. Nevertheless, the rotten accommodations had left them all in a rather crabby mood.  
  
"Of course not, Your Grace," he replied sarcastically, doing his best to make the title sound like the equivalent of a dung-heap. "We're going to Stralsund to catch a ship to France."  
  
"So, we're walking to Germany, then?" Gwen inquired tiredly.  
  
"Just part of the way," Merlin answered in a much more pleasant tone than the one he'd granted Arty, knowing it would annoy him. "We'll try and catch a bus for the other part."  
  
Despite his initial misgivings about her accompanying them, he'd found it rather hard to be angry with Gwen for any period of time. Her friendly countenance was simply too contagious. The girl was hardly seen without a smile on her face, and even Gaius - for all that his age did not appear to agree with their new mode of transportation - seemed the better for it.  
  
Speaking of his partner, Gwen was giving him a rather concerned look, wincing at his small groans of pain and his stiffer-than-normal gait.  
  
"Are you all right, Gaius?" she inquired kindly, placing a hand on his arm.  
  
Gaius nodded, waving away her concern. "Yes, yes, quite all right. It's been a long time since these old bones have been up to such adventure, I fear."  
  
"Don't mind him," Merlin grinned back at her. "He's always pulling the age card when he wants out of something. He's probably just gearing up to avoid buying our meal at the next city we pass."  
  
He felt rather than saw Gaius' glare on the back of his neck.  
  
"Yes, it's a shame we don't all have your vitality and youth, Merlin. Perhaps you could put it to better use walking rather than criticizing the rest of us?"  
  
Arty snorted appreciatively, causing Merlin to scowl.  
  
"Yes, Merlin," he agreed, a smug grin in his voice. "Why don't you shut up for a while?"  
  
"I'm not the one whining about having to do a bit of walking," Merlin countered crossing his arms over his jacket.  
  
"No, you're the one bothering everyone with your extremely large mouth."  
  
"We could view this as a fortunate opportunity," Gaius interrupted between pained grunts, "to fortify Arty's knowledge of what it is to be a grand duke."  
  
"What's there to know?" Arty asked, frowning. "They're the sons of the _tsar_ , and they were all supposedly killed off in the revolution."  
  
"Well, that's hardly going to impress Morgana," replied Gaius distractedly. Merlin shot a warning look behind him that was pointedly ignored.  
  
"Who's Morgana?" Gwen asked, confused. "I thought we were going to see Prince Uther."  
  
"She's the Comtesse de Montferrier, and the prince's first cousin. No one sees Uther without convincing her first," answered the older man, his eyes on his aching feet. Merlin frantically signalled him to be quiet, but the damage was already done.  
  
" _What?_ "  
  
Merlin winced, feeling Arty bristle behind him. He'd been hoping to spring that particular surprise a little more gracefully, given Arty's reluctance to accompany them in the first place.  
  
"I have to _convince_ his _cousin_?" Arty demanded loudly, stopping in the middle of the road. "You never said I'd have to _prove_ I was the grand duke!"  
  
Merlin approached him with an uneasy grin, his hands out before him in what he hoped was a gesture of penitence. "Well, it's the only way to see the prince, really."  
  
Arty scowled, crossing his arms. "I'm not going to lie!"  
  
"Who says it's a lie?" he asked innocently, stepping forward with caution. This had to be played delicately. "For all you know, you _could_ be the grand duke. We're just offering you the chance to find out."  
  
Scoffing, Arty looked down at his ragged clothes, no better for having jumped from a train the day before. "Have you seen me? I'm not exactly grand duke material! I wouldn't know the first thing about it!"  
  
"We can teach you," Gaius interrupted as Merlin nodded encouragingly. "The mannerisms, the history - everything you'd need to know."  
  
The orphan looked between them helplessly before giving a frustrated groan, throwing his arms up in the air.  
  
"Look, this isn't what I signed on for, all right?" Arty shook his head, turning back down the road. "I just wanted to go to Paris, and I can do that without you."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Merlin called after him angrily, seeing his chances at a fortune slipping away with each step. "How're you going to do that, exactly, without a visa? Russia's not the only country that requires travel papers, you know."  
  
"I'll figure something out," was the stubborn reply.  
  
Left behind, Gwen eyed Gaius and Merlin uncertainly. "... It's just that I sort of came with him..." she explained awkwardly, gesturing to the departing orphan before trailing after him.  
  
Gaius sighed heavily. "Well, that could have gone better."  
  
"Oh, you think?" barked Merlin, glaring at his partner. "Why'd you have to go blabbering on about Morgana?"  
  
"He was going to find out eventually," the old man defended, his eyebrows snapping together. "I don't know why you thought you could keep it from him. And you really shouldn't get him so wound up."  
  
"Wha— He started it!" he retorted incredulously. He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I guess I should probably go stop them."  
  
"No, I think you've done quite enough for the moment," Gaius replied, moving to lean against a nearby tree. "Have patience. We'll give him a chance to cool down, and then go talk to him."

* * *

Arty huffed as he stalked down the road. The nerve of that skinny, big-eared idiot! Expecting him to cheat his way to an audience with the prince. He shook his head angrily. Fooling himself into believing there was a chance he could be the grand duke was one thing, but outright lying about it was something else.  
  
"Are you all right?" Gwen asked, jogging to keep up with him, her small suitcase in tow. "You seem really upset by this whole thing."  
  
He whirled on her. "How can they expect me to pretend to be royalty? There's nothing royal about me! I'm just an orphan from nowhere who doesn't even know his real name."  
  
Gwen stayed quiet, sympathy in her eyes. They'd reached a small covered bridge over a thawing stream, and Arty sighed as he leaned against the wooden railing, staring out at the water.  
  
"There's no way I could pull it off," he said to himself, looking down at his reflection. He couldn't bear the thought of getting his hopes up over this, only to face more disappointment. The trip had already had its fair share of it.  
  
"But that's not true," Gwen protested, setting down her bag and standing just behind him. "Merlin and Gaius have offered to teach you, and they've already said how much you look and sound like Arthur. If it's just a matter of learning, there's no reason you couldn't do it."  
  
She didn't understand.  
  
"And then what?" he demanded, frowning as he kicked a small stone off the bridge into the water, the ripples distorting his reflection. "I convince myself I could be Arthur and get all the way to France just to find out they're not my family after all."  
  
"At least you'd be in Paris," she offered softly. "And you'd be on your way to finding your real family, whoever they are."  
  
He turned to her, guarded but hopeful, as if everything didn't ride on her answer. "Do _you_ think it's possible? That I could be who they say I am?"  
  
To her credit, she didn't answer right away, leaning against the railing as she considered it seriously. "I think... anything's possible..." she answered carefully, glancing sideways at him. "But if you're always afraid of being disappointed, you're never going to get anywhere, regardless of whether or not you go with them."  
  
He sighed. "You don't know what it was like— Showing up at the orphanage without a single clue who I was or where I'd come from. Waiting by the window every day for someone to come looking for me. And when no one came..." Arty shook his head, turning away to face the stream as his thoughts turned to his necklace. "All my life, all I've ever wanted is to know where I belong. If there's even a chance I could be who they say I am..."  
  
"Sounds like you've made up your mind," she concluded with a smile.  
  
Arty ran a hand through his hair, sighing again as he spotted Gaius and Merlin walking down the road after them. "I guess I have." He eyed Gwen hopefully, "You're still coming with us, aren’t you? I mean, you're not heading back to Russia?"  
  
She shook her head, excited. "Of course I'll still come. It’ll be an even bigger adventure than I thought, seeing you become royalty."  
  
Merlin and Gaius drew nearer, hauling the rest of their luggage. They set it down, Merlin folding his arms, obviously still unimpressed by Arty’s earlier display.  
  
"Well?" Gaius inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Are you still leaving us, or would you like to find out what awaits you in Paris?"  
  
Arty sighed, Gwen giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.  
  
"All right, fine. I'll do it," he agreed, pushing away from the railing. "How hard could it be?"

* * *

As it turned out, plenty hard.  
  
"A grand duke is of royal blood," Merlin had started out by explaining.  
  
" _A grand duke is of royal blood,_ " repeated Arty slowly, his tone as dry as paper. "That is _quite_ the nugget of information, Merlin. I do hope I can look forward to further such gems over the course of my education."  
  
Merlin thinned his lips, seemingly unimpressed with the interruption. "As I was saying, they're born with a certain poise and confidence that's hard to replicate. They're practically bred for the life. As much as you may look like the grand duke, it's going to be hard work schooling yourself to act that way."  
  
Which was how Arty wound up walking the next three miles down the road, listening as the two men extolled on the virtues of a _velikii kniaz_ , while attempting to balance a heavy bound book about royal etiquette on the top of his head.  
  
"No, keep your back straight," Gaius guided as the book slid off again and fell to the ground. "Chin up and level with the floor."  
  
"Imagine a string pulling you straight up from the top of your head," added Merlin helpfully, looking rather amused.  
  
Arty glared at the pair of them, bending over to pick the book up again. "If it's so easy, why don't _you_ try it?" he said, settling it on his head once more. His hair was going to look ridiculous when this was done, he was sure.  
  
Merlin stood up taller, frowning. "It's not me who's got to impress the comtesse," he defended.  
  
Sighing, Arty tried again, feeling stiffer and more uncomfortable that he'd ever felt in his life. How could anyone be expected to walk like this? It's a wonder the royals ever got anywhere.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Gwen covertly sneaking a book onto the top of her head. He noted with some envy that she appeared to be having far less difficulty than he was. Perhaps women were born with a natural gift for this sort of thing.  
  
"You're still leaning forward too much," Merlin criticized as they came to a fork in the road. "Straighten your shoulders more."  
  
Fed up, he started to bite out a comeback but stopped, composing himself. Straightening his shoulders, he glided past Merlin, digging out the most imperious tone he could muster. "You know, it's probably just as well it’s not you trying this. Behaving like royalty isn't for everyone. Such things are best left to those with natural grace and talent. Someone as awkward as you could never manage."  
  
Merlin narrowed his eyes.  
  
Which was how the three of them wound up walking the next two miles down the road with books balanced precariously on their heads as Gaius explained the history of the Russian monarchy, all the while shooting them exasperated looks.  
  
Arty's mood had improved considerably.  
  
"Not as easy as it looks, is it?" he gloated, watching as Merlin - too busy minding the book on his head to keep an eye on the path - stumbled over a tree branch, sending the book flying. Grumbling to himself, he bent to pick it up again, ignoring Arty.  
  
Gwen, on the other hand, continued to fare far better than either of them, her book staying mostly in place as she walked. Arty privately thought her bushy hair gave her an unfair advantage, but said nothing. She continued to dart concerned glances back and forth between the two of them as they bickered.  
  
Arty's book slipped forward a bit, but he kept it from sliding off, impressing himself with his own skill even as Merlin's book fell off again.  
  
"Come on, Merlin," he goaded. "Just prop it between those ridiculous ears of yours. That should keep it in place."  
  
The glare he received in response was withering, and he smirked. It was about time that mouthy little upstart was put in his place.  
  
"Are _any of you_ paying attention to what I'm saying?" Gaius demanded, raising a severe eyebrow as he interrupted his own speech on the proper way to eat stroganoff at a formal dinner. Gwen shot him a sympathetic look while the other two largely ignored him.  
  
Merlin's book continued to slide, and his expression soured. "I think mine is bigger than yours."  
  
Arty snorted, biting back the rude comment on the tip of his tongue out of respect for Gwen's presence. Instead, he rolled his eyes. "They're the same size, idiot. You're just clumsy."  
  
The other man shook his head, oblivious. "No, mine definitely has thicker pages. The weight distribution is off."  
  
" _That,_ " Arty said, stopping and taking the book off of his head, "Is the single dumbest thing you've said so far. A very impressive feat, mind you - you've made some pretty stupid remarks."  
  
Merlin stopped as well, affronted, his brow set in anger as he opened his mouth to retort—  
  
"So, what else has Arty got to learn, Gaius?" Gwen interjected in an obvious attempt to keep the peace.  
  
Gaius seemed grateful for the intervention. "Well, there are all the manners of the court, of course," he replied with far more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, pleased to have an audience at last. "And some skill with the grand duke's pastimes, as well as the history of the Russian royal family. He'll have to learn all about the grand duke in particular - his habits, his friends, that sort of thing."  
  
"I have to learn all of that?" Arty asked, feeling a bit intimidated. "How long do you think that'll take?"  
  
"The rest of the trip, I expect. If we work at it," Gaius replied, unconcerned, as if he hadn't just suggested Arty learn a lifetime's worth of details and trivia in the space of two months or so.  
  
"It's all right," Gwen assured him quietly, reading his expression. "We'll all help you."  
  
"Yeah," said Merlin, fighting a grin. "We'll try to use as many small words as possible. It'll be no problem at all."  
  
He ducked as Arty chucked the heavy book in his direction, laughing as it missed.  
  
Sighing heavily to himself, Gaius pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be a very long trip."

* * *

"A duke," Merlin called out, his arms folded where he leaned against a tree.  
  
Arty inclined his head as Gwen bowed deeply. "My Lord Duke."  
  
"Good. A princess of royal blood," said Gaius.  
  
"Your Highness," bowed Arty to Gwen's curtsey, lightly kissing her proffered hand.  
  
"Don't bend quite so much," instructed Merlin, moving forward to demonstrate. "You're the Grand Duke of Russia - you outrank all but the _tsar_ and _tsaritsa_.”  
  
Arty nodded, slightly overwhelmed. They'd been at it for almost five days now. His head was beginning to spin with names and dates and bits of protocol, and it was starting to feel as though he could not do a single thing without an annoying voice in his head - sounding infuriatingly like Merlin - reminding him of how _Arthur_ would have done it.  
  
He grit his teeth, repeating the bow. "Your Highness."  
  
Gwen curtsied again with a laugh. "Your Imperial Highness."  
  
They'd stopped for a rest just outside of Vilnius, Merlin taking the opportunity to school him on the proper way to greet dignitaries. As it turned out, Merlin was secretly as much of a stickler for details as Gaius was, hounding Arty for every mistake and insisting he do it again and again until it was perfect.  
  
Arty was now firmly convinced that royals were insane from birth - why else would they waste all their time worrying about standing correctly or using the proper fork at a banquet? Speaking of eating—  
  
His stomach growled loudly. "Are we done yet?" he asked, thinking fondly of the wrapped up _kielbasa_ in the rucksack, leftover from when they'd last been through town.  
  
"You can worry about eating once you've got this right," Merlin said harshly, folding his arms again. "A baron?"  
  
Scowling, Arty started to refuse, but Merlin merely raised his eyebrows in a rather scary imitation of Gaius. "Do you want to meet the prince or don't you? _A baron?_ " he repeated.  
  
Heaving a frustrated sigh and plotting squishy things to leave in Merlin's bedroll later that evening, Arty inclined his head to Gwen. "My Lord."

* * *

"Uncle Tristan?"  
  
"Tristan Gorloisovich Vasiliev. Second son of Gorlois Vasiliev. Born in Moscow, lived in St. Petersburg," answered Arty tiredly, sitting cross-legged and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
Gaius nodded. "General Bounine?"  
  
"General Sergei Pavlovich Bounine. Born in Yekaterinburg. Served the Russian army in Bucharest. Trusted friend of _Tsar_ Ector."  
  
" _Your father,_ " Gaius corrected meaningfully.  
  
"Right," he sighed. "Trusted friend of my father, _Tsar_ Ector."  
  
They were stopped again for lunch, more than two days' journey from Warsaw, taking their meal on the ground near an expanse of trees as Merlin poured over photographs of the Russian royal family, searching for any details he may have missed. He and Gaius had been working nonstop to prepare Arty, spending every spare moment on his lessons, but there was still so much more for him to learn. At this rate, Merlin feared they would not be ready to see the comtesse when they arrived in Paris. Every extra day they were delayed was another day of funds wasted on lodgings, with the ever-looming threat that someone else might beat them to the reward.  
  
"Lena Tarasova?" Gwen piped up, having taken to her part in Arty's studies quite enthusiastically, claiming the new knowledge as "fascinating."  
  
"Lena Tarasova," Arty echoed, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Er..."  
  
"Yes?" prompted Merlin, looking up from a photo of the Petrovin children.  
  
"Maidservant to _Tsarevna_ Helen; served my family for ten years..." he trailed off uncertainly.  
  
"And?" Merlin prompted, frowning.  
  
Arty closed his eyes, searching for the answer. "And... er ..."  
  
"And she used to bring wildflowers for the grand duchess' chambers!" groaned Merlin, his head falling back against the tree in frustration. "Morgana will expect to hear details like that. We went over this a dozen times!"  
  
"Well, I'm sorry, but maybe trying to memorize an entire family history in two weeks just isn't possible!" Arty argued back, equally frustrated. "We've been going at it for fifteen days straight now! Can't I just take a _break_ for a bit?"  
  
"No, you _can't_ just _'take a break,'_ " countered Merlin, standing. "I thought you wanted to take this seriously!"  
  
"It took the _real_ Arthur a lifetime to learn these things!" Arty shouted, throwing up his hands. " _He_ probably didn't even know all of it. How can I be expected to memorize so much in such a short time?"  
  
He glared, the fingers of his right hand playing agitatedly with the gold chain around his neck. Merlin glared right back at him.  
  
"Maybe if you were paying attention instead of always fiddling with that stupid necklace of yours you'd actually be able to learn something," he spat, crossing his arms.  
  
Arty's expression pinched together, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Look, I didn't ask to be a part of your little lessons - _you_ asked _me_! And I'm sick of studying all this pointless trivia. _Who cares_ how many spoons are in a formal dining setting? And _who cares_ how the grand duke preferred his horses to be groomed? None of it means anything! I should have just gone to Paris myself."  
  
"Well, if that's how you feel, maybe you _should_ go," Merlin said, standing his ground.  
  
"Maybe I will!"  
  
"Fine."  
  
" _Fine!_ "  
  
Arty turned on his heel, stalking off into the trees as Merlin huffed, taking his seat again and tearing angrily at a bread roll.  
  
Gwen and Gaius exchanged meaningful glances.  
  
"Arty's trying his best," Gaius commented, returning his eyes to the new travel visas he was making for their passage into Germany. "He's under enormous pressure. You _could_ try to be a little more understanding."  
  
"His best isn't good enough!" Merlin raged. "We see the comtesse in a matter of weeks and he can't even remember the names of all the grand duke's horses. Morgana will spot a mistake in an instant, and Uther will spot it faster than that. He needs to be _perfect_."  
  
"Still, imagine it from his point of view," the other man continued, sounding uninterested as he carefully penned the letters of Gwen's name. "Three weeks ago, he had no past, no family, no formal training, and suddenly we've foisted all these rules and names and dates upon him as if they should be second thought. It takes a lifetime to become a grand duke, after all."  
  
Merlin sighed, feeling some of his anger ebb away. "Well, a lifetime is the one thing we _don't_ have."

* * *

_The ice was slippery beneath his feet, the cold winter wind whipping across his face, leaving him numb. His heart pounded beneath his ribcage, threatening to burst.  
  
Cruel red eyes glared at him from across the river. Desperately, he ran for firm ground, but the edge of the bank got farther and farther away with each step until his feet slid out from under him.  
  
"You'll not escape this time."  
  
He shouted for help, reaching his arm out as far as he could stretch it, even as he felt the ice cracking beneath him—_  
  
Arty jerked awake, an odd mixture of anger and what could only be fear coursing through him. It was the same nightmare that had haunted him as a child, but it had been years since he'd last dreamt of the evil monster his mind had created.  
  
He sighed, letting his head fall back against his thin pillow as he waited for his breathing to even out again, rubbing a tired hand over his face. It was all these royalty lessons, he decided. They did odd things to a person's brain.  
  
They'd made it to Warsaw only that evening, deciding to stop for the night, finding a room at a small inn. Despite this being the third week of their travels, Gaius and Merlin had once again waved off his offers to contribute what few _kopeks_ he had to the fund for their lodgings, insisting it would be taken care of. Privately, he wondered if his companions were into forging more than just travel papers. The atmosphere between him and Merlin had been tense the last few days, and - exhausted already from their travels - everyone had unanimously agreed to turn in early.  
  
Sighing again, Arty shuffled his feet beneath his blanket, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling of the nightmare.  
  
"You all right?"  
  
Arty absolutely did not jump at the voice - he merely turned alertly, finding Merlin staring at him from his nearby bedroll. He scowled, embarrassed that his nightmare had attracted such attention.  
  
"Why do you care?" he demanded quietly in a petulant tone, turning on his side away from the other man.  
  
Merlin frowned. "I was just asking," he whispered, settling back down into his bed.  
  
Something in his voice made Arty regret snapping. He sighed, glancing back over his shoulder.  
  
"It's nothing," he dismissed, trying not to wake Gwen who was dozing lightly on the other side of him. "Just a bad dream."  
  
"Oh," Merlin said, sounding surprised that Arty had spoken. "All right, then."  
  
Silence fell, interrupted only by Gaius' loud snores. Merlin seemed to be struggling with something, quietly arguing with himself.  
  
"You... You did all right today, you know," he said after a moment, staring resolutely at the ceiling.  
  
Arty blinked at the unexpected compliment, but cleared his throat softly, conjuring up a cocky tone. "Of course I did," he whispered back. "I was born for this stuff, right?"  
  
Merlin huffed a laugh. "I wouldn't go that far," he retorted half-heartedly.  
  
Silence followed again, though Arty knew the other man was still awake. He turned on his back.  
  
"I hate sleeping on the ground," he complained softly.  
  
"I've slept on worse," Merlin shrugged.  
  
Arty had as well - the beds at the orphanage had been as hard as rocks - but that didn't make him like it any. Frowning into his pillow, he longed for the cool feel of a feather mattress beneath him, which was confusing, since he'd never so much as glimpsed at a real feather mattress, let alone touched one to ascertain its temperature. Chalking it up to a good imagination, he punched at his pillow in a vain attempt to make it more comfortable.  
  
Finally he sighed, resigning himself to the soreness he’d face come morning.  
  
"So, how come you're okay with leaving Russia?" Arty wondered, glancing at Merlin again. "Won't your family miss you?"  
  
Merlin continued to stare up at the ceiling, looking vaguely uncomfortable.  
  
"It was just me and my mom," he replied quietly after a moment. "She died when I was four, and I got sent off to— to work."  
  
"Oh," said Arty awkwardly, regretting bringing it up. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Not your fault," was Merlin's response, though Arty could tell he was forcing a light tone. "I mean, I loved her and all, but I've been on my own for so long that I don't really miss it, you know?"  
  
Arty didn't know. He'd never known anything except the ache for a family, and could not conceive of the idea of going through the rest of his life without one. "Doesn't it get sort of ... I don't know, lonely?" he asked, suddenly wondering if it was just him that felt that way.  
  
Merlin frowned, bringing an arm up to rest behind his head and looking thoughtful. "I've got Gaius," he offered. "He's pretty much like family, I guess."  
  
"Yeah," Arty said, frowning. He really couldn't understand how Merlin could be so unconcerned about it. To him, finding his family - a place to belong - was the most important thing in the world. He'd never really thought about what might matter to other people.  
  
"So, how come you're doing this, anyway?" he asked. "Why go through all this trouble just to find the grand duke?"  
  
Merlin was quiet for a long time. Just when Arty began to think he might have fallen asleep, he answered.  
  
"I dunno. Haven't you ever wanted to be someone important?"  
  
Arty frowned, thinking. Sure, in his early life, when Lada Kuzmina was being particularly irksome, he'd daydreamed about being the lost son of a rich merchant or duke, imagining the look on old Lada's face when his family appeared in fine things to claim him. He supposed that finding the lost Grand Duke of Russia brought with it certain notoriety as well. However, something in Merlin's voice made him think there was more to it than that.  
  
He heard Merlin sigh. "Goodnight, Arty."  
  
"Goodnight," he bid, turning on his side again, hoping to catch some shuteye. But something about their conversation had Arty pondering his words long after the other man had fallen back to sleep.

* * *

"I don't think this is a very good idea."  
  
Merlin smirked, putting one foot up on the fence. They'd been walking most of the morning when he'd spotted the large farm, the need for a break and another lesson fusing together in his brain to form a brilliant idea. It _was_ a brilliant idea, no matter what Arty said. "Why? You need to learn how to ride, and the owner won't notice. It's not like we're _stealing_ them, now is it?"  
  
Arty crossed his arms, standing his ground as he eyed the distant pack of equines. "We can't just break into someone else's farm and start riding around on their horses. Besides, there's no tack, no saddle..."  
  
"Then it's a good thing for you that the grand duke rode bareback, isn't it?" Merlin grinned, feeling rather pleased about the whole thing. He sidled up the wooden fence, sitting atop with a leg on either side. "Come on, it'll be fun."  
  
It was a warm sunny afternoon with very few clouds marking up the sky. The port in Stralsund was only a week or so away, and after a month of nonstop travel, Merlin was eager for a change of pace.  
  
"I don't see why I should bother," Arty continued, glaring. "It's not as if Morgana will make me trot around the front yard doing tricks."  
  
"She might," Gaius piped up from his spot in the shade of a tree. "She's a frightfully clever girl. Everything you do will be a test with her. We have to be prepared for every possibility."  
  
Gwen hopped up beside Merlin, mindful of her skirts. "Are you coming, Gaius?"  
  
"No, my dear, I think I'll keep watch this time. You never know when that farmer will return."  
  
"Gaius hates riding," Merlin confided.  
  
"Whereas you are an expert, I'm sure." Arty rolled his eyes.  
  
Merlin sighed dramatically. "Look, it's all right to admit you're afraid—"  
  
"Afraid? I'm not afraid!" Arty protested immediately, putting his hands on the worn wood of the fence to hoist himself up.  
  
Merlin smiled to himself, knowing he'd won. Swinging his other leg over the side of the fence, he jumped down, helping Gwen as well. "If you're sure," he sang, feeling decidedly cheerful.  
  
The horses were all gathered on the far side of the pen, flicking their tails and nipping casually at the grass underfoot. There were six of them in all, including a small gray foal that was cantering on the outskirts of the group. They eyed the three strangers warily as they approached.  
  
"Probably full of diseases," Arty mumbled, watching the pack with distrust.  
  
"Nonsense!" Merlin waved him off, reaching his hand out carefully to let a speckled-gray mare sniff it. The horse huffed disinterestedly and allowed him to move closer.  
  
He grinned letting his fingers brush across its mane. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" he marvelled as the horse's head knocked against him gently.  
  
Behind him, Arty heaved a put-upon sigh. "Yes, Merlin, the horse is very pretty," he replied sarcastically, his expression indulgent. "You're not going to start crying like a little girl over it, are you? No offense, Gwen."  
  
"None taken," she replied easily, busy stroking a brown-spotted horse's snout. She laughed as it nipped at her palm.  
  
Merlin turned to him, gesturing to the pack that had gathered around them in interest.  
  
"See? They're very friendly creatures— Ouch!" he yelped, pulling away from a black steed that had just bit his hand. He glared at it, rubbing the injured appendage. The horse, he swore, glared back.  
  
Arty laughed, slowly moving closer to the steed. "Oh, yes. Good taste, too. They know an idiot when they hear one."  
  
"Clearly there's something wrong with that one," he retorted defensively. "Probably has rabies or something."  
  
The devil horse - as Merlin had decided to call it - seemed to have no problem with the orphan, whickering softly against his hand, even while eyeing Merlin with dislike. He decided that the stallion's affection for Arty only further proved it suffered some sort of mental affliction found only in horses.  
  
Mounting them was actually easier than he'd expected, Arty showing a natural grace for it as they used the fence for a leg-up. The three of them took their horses for a short walk in a circle, getting used to the exercise before Merlin suggested they try a slow trot to the edge of the pen. Merlin and Arty took the lead, Gwen following behind at a moderate pace, more interested in relaxing than actually learning the proper posture and form.  
  
Leaving the circle of horses, the gray foal eagerly raced after them, stumbling clumsily as it tripped over its own long legs.  
  
"I think we'll call that one 'Merlin,'" Arty decided gleefully, looking back at him with a teasing grin that he returned.  
  
"Then the slow one sniffing the others' bottoms and being a general pain must be Arty," he replied easily, eyeing a bulky brown horse near the rear of the group as he set his own horse into a trot.  
  
Arty seemed to get the hang of it after a short while, building up the courage to take his steed for a brisk gallop around the pen. Merlin watched him carefully from atop his speckled mare, occasionally calling out pointers for his posture and some of the grand duke's known mannerisms. Arty flashed him a quick grin, taking each tip in stride, the gesture sending a small flash of something warm through Merlin, the feeling disappearing almost as suddenly as it’d appeared.  
  
"Want to race?" Arty asked, nodding his head toward the far end of the pen.  
  
Merlin grinned, settling his grip on his horse's mane.  
  
"You're on."

* * *

They hunkered down for the night in Szczecin, having thankfully caught a ride part way in the back of a carriage, giving their aching feet a rest. The room they'd rented for the evening had a fireplace, and they all gathered around it eagerly as they ate their supper, Gaius reviewing some of the grand duke's favourite pastimes for Arty's benefit.  
  
"The grand duke was an avid hunter for his age," Gaius supplied, leaning over to stoke the fire. "He often accompanied his father and uncles on hunting trips to Spala. He made his first kill at the age of seven. _Tsar_ Ector hung it on the wall of the Large Library in the Alexander Palace. There's no doubt he would have grown up to be quite skilled at the sport."  
  
Arty looked pleased with this assessment, his smile taking on a cocky glint. "Now, that's more like it. Finally something interesting about him instead of all that boring protocol."  
  
Merlin scoffed, taking a bite of his sauerbraten. "You _would_ find something stupid like killing things impressive."  
  
"Obviously, _Mer_ lin, you wouldn't know anything about such a manly endeavour as hunting," Arty drawled, rolling his eyes as he slouched forward. "You'd probably start weeping like a little girl the moment you hit something."  
  
Setting down his fork, Merlin turned his attention to Arty with an impish smirk.  
  
"I guess I just don't understand men who have to prove how big and tough they are by murdering small, defenceless animals. And is that how grand dukes sit, _Arthur_?" he inquired in an imperious tone, once again raising an eyebrow in an eerie impression of Gaius.  
  
With a contemptuous look, Arty straightened his shoulders, sitting stiffly on the bench.  
  
"Happy?" he retorted sarcastically as Gwen hid a smile behind her hand.  
  
"Quite," said Merlin with a pleased grin. Arty responded with a rude gesture that he chose to ignore. "Tomorrow, we'll start more in-depth training on the grand duke's immediate family."  
  
He glanced sideways at Arty again, expecting more snarky commentary, but the orphan actually looked rather excited. Merlin remembered with a start that Arty honestly believed he could be on the verge of finding his lost family, eagerly soaking up all that he and Gaius could divulge about the Petrovins. Frowning, he felt the first inklings of guilt about their scam, but he brushed them aside impatiently. Why should he feel guilty? Arty was the fool who believed he could be royalty - it wasn't Merlin's fault he was so easy to trick.  
  
Suddenly feeling quite tired - and rather less cheerful than he had a moment before - Merlin excused himself from the group, heading for his bedroll. Lying down on his side away from the fire, he scowled. He'd never allowed himself to feel bad about a con before. It wasn't that he was heartless - it was a matter of survival. Gaius had taught him that there were two types of people in the world: those who used their wits and those who didn't. Merlin was merely the former, and so what if Arty was the latter?  
  
He shut his eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around him. He'd make it up to Arty somehow, he thought. Maybe he could help point him in the direction of his real family, or maybe...  
  
Merlin shook his head. There was no reason for him to be so upset about it. He was _this close_ to the biggest payday in history, and he refused to have any second thoughts on the matter.  
  
_It's just the stress of the con, that's all,_ he decided. That, and the annoying brat it depended on. All he needed was a good night's sleep. Things would make sense again in the morning.

* * *

It was a bright sun that greeted them the next day, birds chirping animatedly overhead, though they were all far too tired to notice. The four of them had bartered a ride to the next town in the back of a farmer's cart after another morning of walking. Nestled amongst the bundles of hay, the travellers were all grateful for a chance to rest their weary legs.  
  
After just over a month of non-stop instruction, they'd all unanimously agreed on a short break from their lessons, Gaius and Arty dozing lightly against the straw as Gwen took the opportunity to work on her sketches. Merlin watched her lazily, marvelling at the steady hand that kept the charcoal gliding smoothly across the crumpled page even as the cart hit another bump in the road. She could give Gaius a run for his money.  
  
They'd been travelling in companionable silence for some time when Gwen finally decided to speak.  
  
"It seems like an awful lot of rules, this royalty thing," she commented.  
  
"Yeah, it is, I suppose," replied Merlin, leaning back against his own bale of hay.  
  
"So, how is it you know so much about it?" she asked, her eyes on her drawing of a building they'd passed the previous morning. When he didn't answer right away, she glanced up.  
  
"I mean - I don't mean to pry," she immediately backpedalled, obviously worried she'd offended him. "It's just that you seem to know a lot about the royals for someone who's not a noble— Not to say you _couldn't_ be a noble, I mean - I mean, you're _not_ one, obviously, but it's not because you're not dignified or anything— or—"  
  
Merlin grinned, having grown quite used to her stammering over the course of their journey. He shook his head. "It's fine, Gwen." He shrugged, not certain he wanted to share the main source of his knowledge, but willing to provide a few nuggets of information. "I've studied all about them. And I knew some of the servants who worked in the Winter Palace," he answered truthfully.  
  
"It must have been lovely," she gushed, turning her attention back to her artwork. "Working in such a beautiful place, surrounded by fine things all the time, with all those nobles coming and going. I expect it must have been quite exciting."  
  
He ducked his head, thinking back to his years spent in the kitchens. Back then, the palace had felt more like a jail cell than an adventure, surrounded by reminders of his class at every turn, a thousand limitations on who and what he could be.  
  
"Yeah," he said dully, looking down at his hands.  
  
"Are you all right?" Gwen asked, concerned, setting down her charcoal. "It's just, I've noticed you've been a bit down lately. Is anything wrong?"  
  
He shook his head, embarrassed that she'd noticed. "I'm fine," he insisted.  
  
She looked unconvinced. "...You don't have to tell me," she said, returning to her work. "I just thought you might want someone to talk to."  
  
Merlin watched her closely, a curious grin spreading slowly on his face.  
  
"You know, I don't get you, Gwen," he said after a moment, shaking his head again. "I've never met anyone who could be so nice to people she hardly knows without wanting something in return."  
  
She gave an infectious smile, willing to let him change the subject as she tilted her head. "But that's what you're doing for Arty, isn't it? I mean, you hardly know him, but you're taking him to Paris, helping him find his family, all without expecting anything in return. I know he wouldn't say anything, but it means a lot to him."  
  
The grin froze on Merlin's face, the guilty feeling returning in the pit of his stomach. "Right," he said, uncomfortable. "Yeah, I— I guess."  
  
He cleared his throat, returning his attention to the passing countryside. What was _wrong_ with him? This was no time to be getting a soft head, not with so much at stake. Maybe Gaius was right - maybe it was Arty's increasing likeness to the grand duke that was affecting him, making him second-guess himself. _Or maybe,_ he allowed, _it's because Arty's less of a jerk than I thought he was._  
  
He eyed the sleeping orphan warily, a hint of a smirk on the blond man's face even in sleep. _He's still a pretty big jerk, though,_ he amended, closing his eyes. It was just jitters. He'd get over it.

 

 

**Translations (for those that need them):**  
_Tsarevna_ – roughly translates to Grand Duchess. The title of Arthur’s older sister, Helen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to justicemischief for beta'ing and for all of her help with the action scenes in this chapter.

Merlin leaned back in his seat, holding up an old photograph of a gaunt man with a moustache.  
  
"All right, who's this?"  
  
"Count Gawain Demidov," Arty answered with ease. "He bred dogs, and he hated children. Owain and I used to hide during his visits."  
  
"Right. And this?" he asked, pointing to a portrait of a young girl.  
  
"Sophia Tarasova, only daughter of Count Aulfric Tarasov, Councillor of State. Widower. He used to travel with a large walking stick."  
  
Merlin nodded, turning to a new page in the photo album. After almost a month of walking and hitching short rides, they'd finally managed to get spots aboard a bus that would take them all the way to Stralsund, where they would be catching their boat to Paris. Gwen and Gaius had settled into their seats across the aisle, the pair taking another much-needed break from royalty lessons, insisting that he and Arty do the same. Surprisingly, though, Arty had shown little interest in stopping, eagerly skimming through one of the photo albums until Merlin finally decided to quiz him on it.  
  
His eyes fell to an older picture of the Petrovins, bribed off a baroness who'd been down on her luck.  
  
"Okay, here's the _tsar_ , and the _tsaritsa_ , and their family," Merlin pointed, indicating the different people in the photograph, more out of habit than actual need. Arty had been studying them intently for the better part of a month, and probably could have drawn their faces in his sleep. "And that's their boat—"  
  
"' _The Standardt_ ,'" Arty finished distractedly, his eyes following Merlin's finger around the page.  
  
Merlin frowned, trying to remember when they’d taught him the name of the boat. "How did you know that?"  
  
Arty blinked. "It's... written on the side of the lifeboat," he pointed hesitantly.  
  
"Oh," said Merlin, feeling foolish. "Right. Well, the _tsar_ loved boating. In the spring, the royal family spent their time at Tsarskoye Selo. And in summer, they lived at Peterhof Palace."  
  
"Tsarskoye Selo and Peterhof," repeated Arty. "Got it."  
  
Merlin studied him, impressed with the dedication that had only increased as they neared Paris. He'd had his doubts initially, but Arty had turned out to be a fairly good student, absorbing whatever he and Gaius taught him.  
  
"Do you think the comtesse will agree to see me?" Arty wondered, his voice far too casual as he turned to the next page of photographs.  
  
He nodded. "Gaius is an old acquaintance of hers. She'll agree to see him, which means she'll see you."  
  
Arty's head shot up, intrigued. "Gaius? Really?"  
  
"He was a member of the Imperial Court," Merlin confided. He and Gaius had shared little with Arty and Gwen of their respective pasts, but Merlin didn't think his partner would mind.  
  
"Well, that makes sense," Arty shrugged, taking it in stride. "Doesn't really explain _you_ , though."  
  
He frowned. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I _mean,_ " Arty drawled, "That he has an excuse for the vast reserve of royal knowledge he has at his disposal, whereas _your_ decidedly creepy firsthand knowledge has no real explanation. Tell me, _Mer_ lin," he said seriously, looking him in the eye. "Are you secretly harbouring obsessive tendencies for members of the royal family?"  
  
Merlin rolled his eyes, looking out the window.  
  
"It's all right, you know," Arty continued, still in the same overly-serious tone of voice Merlin had come to associate with his teasing. "You can tell me all about your little crush. Did you draw hearts around Grand Duchess Helen's name? It seems like the sort of girly thing you would do."  
  
He felt his cheeks heat, the taunting hitting a little too close to home. Not that he'd ever drawn hearts around the grand duke's name or anything like that.  
  
"You're slouching again," he commented lamely in an obvious attempt to change the subject.  
  
Arty smirked, knowing he'd won, though he straightened his shoulders all the same. There was a bit of tightness around his eyes that confused Merlin.  
  
"Have you ever been to France before?" said Arty after a moment of silence.  
  
"No," answered Merlin, leaning back in his seat again. "I've never left Russia, actually."  
  
"Do you plan on staying there?" he asked, staring hard at the photo album, an odd inflection in his voice. "Once we meet the prince, I mean."  
  
Merlin frowned – hadn’t they already gone over this? He supposed he’d never given a straight answer on the train, irritated as he’d been by Arty’s pestering, but now he gave the question serious thought.  
  
Truthfully, he still hadn't worked out what he'd like to do next. If everything went according to plan, he'd have more than enough money to do whatever he liked. He'd always assumed that would mean buying himself a nice place somewhere in Russia, but now that they had gone so far, he rather liked his earlier idea of travelling a bit more. Maybe he could tour France for a while - after finding Gaius a nice place to retire to, of course.  
  
Arty was still looking at him expectantly, but Merlin was saved the task of having to answer, catching sight of the approaching harbour outside the window. "We're here."

* * *

The cargo ship Merlin had bartered them passage on was called the USS Odenwald. They were the only civilian passengers leaving with the crew from Stralsund, and had been given a small two-bunk room on the lower deck. Gaius had begged off to the upper deck almost immediately after they cast off, sickened by the movement of the ship, while Gwen had avoided the lower deck entirely, disappearing to explore their new environment, her drawing materials in tow.  
  
Arty neatly smoothed out his bedroll on top of the thin bed sheets of the bunk. It was still too early in the day to retire, but it didn't hurt to stake a claim.  
  
They'd been at sea for a couple of hours, and Arty was already acclimatizing to the steady lean and tilt of the boat, adjusting his footing accordingly as he made his way about their small compartment. He didn't hear the door creak open behind him, but he caught sight of dark brown hair out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Settling in, I see," Merlin commented dryly from the doorway, raising an eyebrow, his hands behind his back.  
  
"I've already claimed the bottom bunk, and Gaius will need the other one, so you'll have the floor, I think," Arty informed him brightly. "Gwen's decided to sleep in the corridor if she can - I don't think she likes being below deck much."  
  
Merlin nodded, seeming a bit distracted.  
  
"I got you something," he said, holding out a paper-wrapped package.  
  
Arty paused, standing up straight.  
  
"What is it?" he questioned, eyeing the package with distrust.  
  
Merlin rolled his eyes, shoving it at his chest. "It's a court uniform. _Tsar_ Nicholas the first required all men to wear them to the imperial balls. I thought you might like it— I mean— you might want to wear it when we meet Morgana."  
  
"Why?" Arty asked, glancing curiously at Merlin.  
  
The other man looked as if the conversation were quickly taking an undesired turn.  
  
"Because...er, that is..." he answered uncomfortably. Arty raised his eyebrows. "Well, you can't wear those rags to meet Morgana. Put it on, will you?"  
  
Quirking his lips, Arty tore at the packaging, revealing a red tunic with gold threading. It wasn't new, by any means, but it must have cost Merlin a pretty penny all the same.  
  
"Careful, Merlin," he cautioned, smirking. "If you keep buying me presents, people will start to think you're a nice person."  
  
Merlin scoffed, his cheeks reddening. "Just put it on, already."  
  
He turned quickly and left, shaking his head, the door falling closed behind him.  
  
Arty stared after him thoughtfully, a puzzled frown marring his brow as he glanced back down at the gift in his hands. There were times when he almost thought he understood Merlin. But other times...

* * *

"How long until we reach Paris?" Gwen wondered.  
  
"About three days," Merlin replied, leaning against the railing as he gazed out at the water. Gwen and Gaius had found makeshift seating on-deck, pushing some wooden boxes together near the rail. Gwen sat drawing, as usual, her fingers coated in charcoal and a smudge of gray across her forehead where she'd pushed her unruly hair out of her face. Gaius had been silent, for the most part, the motion of the ship making him yearn for fresh air and steady ground. "We'll be docking in the port of Le Havre. We'll catch another train from there."  
  
"I only hope Arty is ready," Gaius remarked idly. "It won't be easy convincing Morgana he's the grand duke. She's as sharp as her father was, and twice as hard to win over."  
  
"He's ready," Merlin said with certainty.  
  
" _Oh_ ," Gwen interrupted with a gasp, standing to stare at something behind him.  
  
"Now, that's more like it," commented Gaius approvingly, following her gaze with a soft smile.  
  
Merlin turned his head, his jaw dropping.  
  
Arty stood near the stairs to the lower decks, his hands clasped behind his back. The red tunic and breeches looked stunning on him, giving him a commanding presence, and the gold trimming made something in his eyes glitter with power and charm. The setting sun behind him presented him with an almost ethereal glow. He stood straighter, somehow, his confident smile tinged with a hint of uncertainty that only added to his appeal. Merlin stared - for the first time, he could truly see the shimmering of royalty beneath the orphan’s rough exterior.  
  
"Well?" Arty prompted when no one spoke.  
  
Merlin shook himself from his reverie and cleared his throat.  
  
"You- you look nice," he replied, inwardly wincing at himself. _Nice?_ Really? That was the best he could come up with?  
  
Arty rolled his eyes, appearing to have expected nothing less. He ventured closer, giving a small spin for Gwen. The artist rushed forward to admire the fine threads up close.  
  
"You look like a grand duke, indeed, Arty," Gaius complimented with a pleased smile. "And now that you are dressed for a ball, we can work on your dancing. Merlin?"  
  
Both men seemed to be caught off-guard by this request, turning together to frown at the white-haired forger.  
  
" _Me_?" Merlin demanded.  
  
Gaius tutted. "He needs to learn how, and you're a fair enough dancer. Besides, far I'm too old for such things," he added lightly.  
  
Merlin scowled - Gaius always pulled the age card at the most inconvenient of times.  
  
"Better you than me," Gwen whispered to him as she moved to take her seat again. "I swear I have two left feet."  
  
The two men exchanged an awkward glance, quickly looking away again. Deciding it was up to him to take the first step, Merlin cleared his throat. He moved forward, taking Arty's hand in his and laying his other hand on a trim waist, trying to ignore the odd feeling that coursed through him at the contact.  
  
They stood like that for a moment, neither quite sure what to do next, Merlin trying not to notice Gwen's gleeful grin as she watched them from the sidelines.  
  
"... Shouldn't we be moving?" Arty asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Merlin shook himself from his frozen stupor.  
  
"Right. Yes. Well, it's pretty simple," he said, looking down at their feet. "It's a fast beat, but it's just the same four steps around in a circle for the first part."  
  
Gaius cleared his throat, interrupting.  
  
"Don't you think _Arty_ ought to lead, Merlin?"  
  
Steadfastly ignoring Arty's smug grin, he sighed before moving his left hand to Arty's shoulder, letting the other man's hand rest on his waist.  
  
"Excellent," Gaius assessed, waving his hand to an imaginary beat in lieu of music. "Now, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three..."  
  
It was a rocky start, with both men walking straight into each other, neither used to this particular orientation. The second attempt wasn't much better. Arty moved to his left just as Merlin went the opposite way, resulting in an awkward pulling of arms.  
  
"Together, now!" Gaius called helpfully from the railing, sounding vaguely amused to Merlin's great annoyance.  
  
He stumbled, trampling Arty's feet. Arty rolled his eyes.  
  
"Aren't you supposed to be teaching _me_ how to dance?" he asked, pulling him up straight.  
  
Merlin scowled at him, stepping on his foot again, this time on purpose.  
  
They turned in another clumsy circle, Arty shaking his head at the other man's actions. "Stop trying to lead, Merlin," he ordered.  
  
"It's hard to follow someone who doesn't know what they're doing," he retorted pleasantly.  
  
"I know what I'm doing," Arty snapped, affronted, and truthfully he did seem to. For someone who'd never taken a dance lesson in his life, he was good at keeping the beat, and had only stepped on Merlin's foot twice so far. His grip on Merlin's waist was light, but he knew how to press down a bit as they turned, guiding him.  
  
"You know," Arty said after a moment of silence, a slow teasing grin working its way across his face, "I don't think this feels right, somehow. Shouldn't you be wearing a dress of some sort? How else am I to practice manoeuvring around my partner's skirts?"  
  
Merlin's face reddened - already a far-too-familiar feeling on this voyage. "I'm not wearing a dress!" he protested.  
  
But Arty seemed rather caught up in the idea. "A nice red one," he decided, giving it much thought. "With feathers, most likely."  
  
The conman stared at him. "Only _you_ would think red feathers were a good look for a person. And if you want a partner in a dress, you can ask Gwen to dance, but I don't think she'd have you."  
  
Arty frowned at this suggestion. Somehow, over the course of their bickering, they'd evened out in their dancing, their brisk steps more resembling of a waltz than the clumsy fumbling they'd started out with. Neither one seemed to notice when Gaius stopped counting out the beat.  
  
"So, where did someone like _you_ learn to dance?" Arty inquired interestedly, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Merlin blushed, remembering the evenings he'd spent watching the royal balls from the servant's entrance. There was no reason to tell Arty about that, of course. "We're not all country bumpkins, you know," he replied instead. "Some of us have picked up a thing or two along the way."  
  
"I never said you were a country bumpkin," said Arty, a peculiar look on his face.  
  
From their seats near the railing, Gaius and Gwen watched as the pair spun in-time to music only they could hear.  
  
"They're doing quite well together, I think," said Gwen as she lightly sketched two dancing figures onto a thin piece of paper she'd procured from one of the sailors.  
  
"Yes," Gaius agreed, raising a thoughtful eyebrow.  
  
They had the deck completely to themselves, giving Merlin and Arty plenty of room. Their steps became increasingly in-sync as they spun, though Merlin outright refused to let Arty twirl him, arguing that it was something only the "really pompous" dancers did unless part of the original dance pattern.  
  
Arty cleared his throat uncomfortably.  
  
"Look, I ... I forgot to thank you earlier," he said, his grip tightening on Merlin's waist, not meeting his eyes. "For the tunic."  
  
"Oh, er, yeah, no problem," Merlin replied awkwardly. He coughed. "...Red's a good colour for you," he complimented, regretting the words the minute they were out of his mouth. He waited for the mocking glint to appear in his dance partner's eyes, but instead of offering to have him fitted for that dress or making an arrogant statement about his own attractiveness, Arty appeared almost pleased by the compliment.  
  
Merlin felt his oversized ears turn red with unwarranted embarrassment, the twirling of their dance starting to make him dizzy. Feeling lightheaded, he slowed the waltz to a halt. "That's... probably enough for now," he said softly, his hand still in Arty's.  
  
Arty nodded, his face slightly flushed from exertion. "Yeah," he replied.  
  
They locked eyes, and he found himself leaning forward slightly.  
  
"Arty, I—"  
  
Arty swallowed. Was it Merlin's imagination, or had he leaned forward as well? "Yes?"  
  
"I—" He tilted his head slightly, stepping closer—  
  
A gust of wind swept up, sending Gwen's paper flying across the deck and her chasing after it with a startled cry.  
  
Merlin stepped back, dropping his hands at the reminder of their audience. He cleared his throat. He couldn't believe he'd almost...  
  
Embarrassed, he shook the thought from his head.  
  
"You— you’re getting better," he said instead, giving a confused Arty an awkward pat on the shoulder. He headed for the lower deck, blaming the sea air for his brief moment of insanity, leaving his three companions behind.

* * *

The rest of the evening had passed without consequence, the four of them taking their meal in the mess before retiring to their room, bidding goodnight to Gwen, who'd resolved to find a "less cramped" place to sleep, taking her bedroll with her.  
  
Cautiously, Arty toed at Merlin's bedroll on the floor, the other man giving a sleepy sigh as he turned on his side away from him. Merlin had been suspiciously quiet the rest of the night, turning in shortly after Gwen left, claiming to be too tired to stay up for the remainder of Arty's lesson on Grand Duke Owain's favourite books.  
  
"He's alert most of the time, but when he gets the chance, he can sleep through just about anything." Gaius sounded like a disapproving parent, his eyes on Merlin's sleeping form.  
  
Ashamed to have been caught, Arty retracted his foot, leaning back against the edge of his bunk. Instead he glared at the bedroll on the floor, inexplicably angry at Merlin for sleeping when he was too keyed up with excitement to do the same. They'd reach Paris in a matter of days, and then Arty would finally have a chance to put his teachings to the test, finding out once and for all if it had been in vain.  
  
"How much longer do you think it'll be till we get there?" he asked, watching as the older man gulped down a concoction he'd bartered off one of the sailors to settle his stomach.  
  
"I imagine about an hour less than the last time you asked me," Gaius answered dryly. He shot Arty a glance over his shoulder. "You know, it will seem much faster if you get some sleep," he added, raising a meaningful eyebrow.  
  
Arty stood reluctantly, accidentally knocking over Merlin's bag as he did. A bundle of fabric fell out with a soft _clink_ , a hint of silver glimmering from beneath the folds. Curious, he knelt, unwrapping the bundle to discover a palm-sized hunk of silver metal and jewels.  
  
His eyes narrowed in thought.  
  
"It’s a fine piece, isn't it?" Gaius commented disinterestedly, folding his clothes for the next day.  
  
"Yeah," Arty replied distractedly, frowning. Something about the box tugged at his memory, but trying to hold onto the thought was like trying to grab a fistful of smoke. He turned the box in his hands, studying the patterns as they went all the way around. The dragons seemed almost alive, the way they bent and twisted around the corners, as if in flight. The jewels glittered in the poor light of the compartment.  
  
"Where did Merlin get this?" he wondered. It seemed far too expensive a trinket for a peasant to own, especially one who lived as modestly as Merlin did. The unpleasant thought that he may have stolen it entered Arty's mind, but he brushed it aside.  
  
Gaius coughed uncomfortably. "He's had that for as long as I've known him," the older man hedged, climbing the ladder to his bunk. Arty didn't pursue the matter further, too enthralled by the treasure in his hands.  
  
His fingers ran around the edges, feeling the bumps and curves in the design. Slowly, he moved his fingers to the lid, pushing the latch to open it.  
  
Inside, it was empty.  
  
He closed the box again, feeling rather disappointed. He'd been certain there was something special inside it... something _secret_...  
  
He shook his head at the thought - secrets! Where had he ever gotten such an idea? Clearly, the sea air was going to his brain. Hastily, he stowed the box back in Merlin's bag and settled down on his bunk.  
  
"'Night, Gaius," he bid, turning on his side, trying to put the box from his mind.  
  
At the mumbled reply from the bunk above him, Arty gave an amused huff. Closing his eyes, the gentle sway of the ship soon lulled him off to sleep.

* * *

Nimueh smirked as she gazed into the water, the image of the sleeping grand duke reflected back at her. She needed to end this once and for all - she'd waited far too long already.  
  
"I will not fail again," she vowed, bringing her red phial up to dangle over the water, her eyes burning red as she invoked her borrowed power once again.  
  
She wouldn't waste her efforts on theatrics this time. No more sending minions in her place. No more messy explosions or daring escapes. She would not give the others a chance to save him. This time, she'd let the grand duke finish himself off, all while his friends were too busy sleeping to notice.  
  
" _Gemǣlan_ ," she chanted, feeling the magic flicker within her like a small flame, fusing with the brightly burning light of the phial. She'd infect his mind while he was helpless to fight back. He'd join the rest of the _tsar_ ’s family where he belonged, and she'd finally be at peace, free from the curse that tied her to this plane of existence.  
  
Red tendrils crept downwards through the air, breaching the water to wrap themselves around Arthur.  
  
She watched, a pleased grin growing on her face, as he began to stir.

* * *

_The palace was a maze of hallways, each one stretching out for miles before him. He frowned lightly - it all felt so familiar, but he had no idea which way to go, the faces in the portraits that lined the walls grinning their amusement.  
  
"Arthur?"  
  
A beautiful blonde woman with clear blue eyes smiled at him, her laughter like tinkling bells. "Are you coming, dearest?"  
  
He smiled back cheerfully, following her down the middle hall, the floor tilting invitingly beneath his feet, bidding him forward.  
  
"Hurry, Arthur."  
  
She picked up her skirts, grinning over her shoulder as she sped up, disappearing inside a doorway.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
He pressed his hand against the door, gripping the knob until it opened and he caught sight of her blue skirt vanishing around a corner.  
  
"They're waiting for us, Arthur. I'm going to beat you there at this rate." Her laughter echoed down the hall.  
  
He gave a deep laugh as well, feeling it rise from within his belly. He'd never felt so at ease, like everything around him was there for his amusement. Straightening again, he followed her._

* * *

Gwen shifted where she sat, crouched next to the stairs to the main deck, her knees pulled up to her chest and her blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She felt a little foolish for refusing to sleep in the cabin they'd been given, but the thought of being trapped in such a small room below deck had made her anxious. Her makeshift bed beneath the stairs wasn't much better, but the ship's crew had told her it was far too dangerous to sleep on the upper deck, much as the open air might have soothed her nerves a bit.  
  
As it was, there was little chance of her getting any sleep tonight. She'd overheard one of the sailors talking earlier about a storm they were due that evening, and if the unsteady rocking of the ship was any indication, it had arrived. She hoped the medicine Gaius had taken was keeping him asleep - she feared the increased tumult of their trip would be too much for her seasick friend. She was feeling a bit nauseous, herself.  
  
She shifted again as the ship swayed hard to the right, her stomach doing flips. As exciting as sea-travel was, she'd be happy to put her feet on solid ground again - and this with more than a day to go. A drawing pencil dug into her leg through her apron pocket as she twisted, trying to get comfortable.  
  
A creak at the end of the hall caught her attention. She sat up straight, alert as she squinted through the darkness, looking for the source of the noise. She'd heard of rats living on large ships, along with other small rodents, and she didn't fancy being surprised by vicious vermin in her sleep.  
  
Instead, her eyes widened as Arty came stumbling into view, slowly wafting out of the shadows of the hall. She frowned, wondering what had sent him from his bed so late at night. Perhaps he and Merlin had had another fight? They'd been getting along much better these days, but there was always a chance of one of them taking their teasing a bit too far....  
  
He didn't appear to notice her, his eyes staring straight ahead as he walked, his face slack.  
  
"Arty?" she whispered, standing slowly, not wanting to startle him. He kept walking, heading for the stairs, and she moved to cut him off. "Arty? What is it? Did something happen?"  
  
In the low light below deck it was difficult to see, but something about his expression unnerved her, his eyes vacant as he continued to ignore her presence. She laid a hand on his shoulder as he passed, giving him a quick shake. "Arty!" she said, a bit louder now.  
  
He gave no sign that he'd heard her, a strange smile on his face as he moved toward the stairs.  
  
_He's asleep,_ she realised, going still. Gwen had heard about this sort of thing, but had never seen it firsthand. The sailors' warnings echoed in her head as the ship gave another violent sway. There was no telling what trouble Arty could get himself into in this state.  
  
"Wake up!" she urged, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him harder. "Arty, you need to wake up, now."  
  
His arm shot out unexpectedly, shoving her roughly out of the way. Shocked, she watched as he slowly ascended the stairs, heading for the upper deck.  
  
She raced back down the corridor to their cabin, finding the door to be locked. Panicked, she frantically beat her open hand against the door.  
  
" _Merlin!_ " she shouted, glancing back down the hall to where she could just see Arty disappearing up the stairs. "Gaius, wake up! _Please!_ "

* * *

_The staircase went on forever, the blonde woman always just ahead of him, her eyes twinkling in delight at his slow pace.  
  
"They're waiting for us, dearest. Hurry," she called, her voice familiar and warm. He had no choice but to follow.  
  
The stairs tilted beneath his feet - pulling him forward or pushing him back, he couldn’t say - but he kept his balance, hearing sounds of laughter from somewhere outside. A swell of longing surged through him.  
  
"Faster, Arthur. Faster," the woman urged, a bit of panic in her eyes, but it vanished quickly. "They're waiting."  
  
He followed as best he could, taking the stairs two at a time, eager to get closer to the voices that called to him in their amusement._

* * *

Nimueh smirked as she watched him ascend the stairs, stepping out onto the upper deck of the ship. The storm was perfect, sending waves crashing over the sides as rain poured down in sheets, both beating senselessly against the oblivious grand duke. Even if those friends of his tried to stop him, they'd be too late. There was no way they could save him from the torrent of waves and winds that had turned the calm sea into a tempest.  
  
She ran her fingers along the edge of her scrying bowl, anxious as he stumbled his way across the slippery deck, heading for the rail.  
  
"That's it," she soothed, urging him along, her voice mixing with the narrative of his dream. "You're so close."  
  
In the dream, he smiled, following his mother, and Nimueh laughed. He'd be back with his family soon enough - back with that pack of arrogant traitors where he belonged.

* * *

"Wake up!"  
  
Gwen grit her teeth, pounding harder on the cabin door. They weren't answering, and she was growing tenser with each passing second. Arty was in danger up on that deck alone and they needed to help him.  
  
"Merlin, _please_!"  
  
A lifetime passed and the handle turned, the door falling open to reveal a messy-haired Merlin, confusion and annoyance battling for prominence on his face. She sagged in relief, stepping back from the door.  
  
"Gwen? Whussit?" he mumbled, rubbing a tired hand across his eyes.  
  
"Something's wrong with Arty," she said anxiously.  
  
He frowned, turning back to the bottom bunk. His eyes went wide in shock as he found it empty.  
  
"Where is he?" he demanded, panic flashing across his face.  
  
"He's headed for the upper deck," she said, twisting her hands anxiously. "He’s asleep and I couldn’t wake him."  
  
Merlin didn't wait to hear the rest, darting past her into the hallway and bounding up the steps. "Wake Gaius," he called over his shoulder as he ran, and Gwen nodded, stepping into the cabin to try and stir her drugged friend.

* * *

_He hesitated, looking at the branches of the tree with uncertainty, not sure what was holding him back.  
  
The woman touched his arm, encouraging. "Don't you want to see them, Arthur?"  
  
He did, more than anything. Their laughter sounded once more from the other side of the fence, just out of reach.  
  
Stepping forward, he began to climb._

* * *

Merlin rounded the stair to the upper deck, shoving the heavy door open, and was instantly drenched by a wall of water and wind. Squinting through the water dripping into his eyes, he scanned the deck, finding no sign of Arty.  
  
Something was seriously wrong, he could feel it. He needed to find him, needed to be certain that he was all right.  
  
He slid across the wet deck, sprayed with the remnants of a wave, struggling to keep himself from being washed over the side.  
  
Merlin’s longish hair whipped about his face as he scanned the rain-soaked deck desperately for some sign of the other man.  
  
He shouted in panic as he spotted his missing companion climbing the rail on the far side of the ship, wavering unsteadily in the storm. His stomach dropped out, horror freezing him in place.  
  
" _Arty!_ "

* * *

Arthur continued to climb, steadying his feet against the rain-soaked rail when they threatened to slide. Gripping one of the anchor lines, he pulled himself onto the top bar, swinging back and forth with the tilt and sway of the ship, inches from death.  
  
Nimueh grinned, anticipation seeping into her bones.  
  
"That's it," she bid eagerly. "Just another step, Arthur. Then it will all be over.”  
  
His grip was slipping. He wouldn’t be able to stay aloft for much longer. She cheered the grand duke on, longing to see him bring about his own demise, one final stab against the Petrovins. Her smirk twitched to the side as he lifted a foot off the rail, hovering out over the stormy water.  
  
Just a bit further.

* * *

Wrenching back his fear, Merlin flat out ran, focused solely on reaching Arty before a wave could pull him overboard.  
  
Struggling against the wind and the increasingly slippery deck, Merlin stumbled, silently begging anyone who was listening for the strength to get there in time. Arty lurched forward dangerously, one foot off the rail, and he suddenly envisioned him disappearing over the side, lost in the crash of the waves.  
  
"Arty!" he screamed, but the sound was lost in the roar of the storm. The other man continued on, locked in a deadly dream.  
  
Arty's grip on the line loosened, his body started to fall forward, and Merlin reached out a hand, gripping the back of Arty's soaked nightshirt for all it was worth. He pulled against the weight of the larger man, his feet slipping as they tried to find purchase on the water-logged deck, knowing he was just as likely to go toppling overboard with the heavier man as he was to pull him to safety.  
  
A second later, he was crushed by the weight of Arty's body falling back into him. He had barely a second to revel in his victory before the sleeping man started struggling for his life, shoving and kicking. An errant punch caught Merlin across the jaw as he tried to grab the stronger man's wrists long enough to wake him.  
  
"Stop— Arty, wake— Ouch! Arty, damn it, _wake up_ you idiot!"  
  
Arty was pulling back toward the rail, seemingly desperate to go over it. Against his greater bulk and strength Merlin knew he couldn't hold him back for long. Desperate, he pulled his hand back, landing a heavy slap across Arty's face, the sound echoing over the loud roar of the storm.  
  
He cringed, awaiting retaliation from the sleepwalker. Instead, Arty's hands dropped to their sides, a puzzled look replacing the vacant one.  
  
"I— Wha— Did you just _slap_ me?"

* * *

Screaming in outrage, Nimueh dashed her hand across the water, distorting the image of the two friends. Three times now, she'd failed in killing the youngest grand duke, all because he was too heavily protected, always hiding behind others to save his sorry life. She screeched, lobbing a ball of fire against the wall of her cave, watching with little satisfaction as it exploded into nothing.  
  
The other man was proving far more trouble than he was worth, his insistence on protecting the grand duke quickly becoming a nuisance. As long as he was around, she’d have no chance of getting close enough...  
  
She'd need to get Arthur completely alone. Far away from the annoying peasants who kept insisting on interfering in her revenge. This would call for something far more drastic than a simple sleeping spell. Raising the phial, she glared into the oozing red contents, drawing up the power she'd need. There was no room for mistakes this time.  
  
She'd kill him in person.

* * *

Arty blinked owlishly against the pounding rain on his face, feeling disoriented. His clothes were soaked to the skin, and how had he gotten to the upper deck? Not to mention that his jaw stung from where he'd been slapped - _slapped! Like a hysterical girl!_ \- by a pale-faced Merlin, who was still staring at him as if uncertain what he'd do next.  
  
As it turned out, it was _he_ who should have worried about _Merlin's_ next action, as the other man shoved him back across the deck rather forcefully, anger sweeping across his eyes.  
  
"You idiot! Why didn't you warn us you wander in your sleep? You could have been killed!"  
  
Confused, his brain struggled to put together the pieces, bits of the rather peaceful dream he'd been having coming back to him, though the face of the woman leading him was distorted. It almost felt as if it had been someone else urging him along, someone he recognized.... A chill swept through him that had little to do with the large puddle of water they currently sat in.  
  
"I was... sleepwalking?"  
  
"You almost jumped off the boat, you great moron!" Merlin shouted angrily over the sound of another wave crashing against the deck. The harried concern in his eyes was no doubt more evident than Merlin was aware. This had obviously shaken him badly. Guilt gripped Arty.  
  
"I— It's never happened before," he said in shock, the gravity of what could have happened sinking in. He frowned, feeling a confusing mixture of foolishness and fear for his actions, but the anger faded from Merlin's face almost as quickly as it had appeared.  
  
"I guess this nightmare thing's a bit of an issue with you, isn't it?" he joked feebly, his expression strained.  
  
Arty didn't answer, though he appreciated the attempt at normalcy. Shivering, the cold rain blew hard against his back and Merlin jerked his head toward the stairs, standing.  
  
"Come on, let's get back to the cabin. Wouldn't want you freezing your royal behind off when we’re so close to Paris."  
  
He nodded, following him inside, his thoughts on the woman with the pale blue eyes that now seemed almost red in memory.

 

  
**Translations (for those that want them):**  
  
_Gemǣlan - (Old English)_ dream


	7. Chapter 7

_\- Paris, France -_

"I remember it all so well," a handsome, blue-eyed young man gushed as he stood in the drawing room of Prince Uther’s Parisian home.  
  
The current residence of the prince was a large estate, personally decorated by its frequent houseguest, the Comtesse de Montferrier, as Uther showed little interest in such matters. The room itself was muted beige, a mellow contrast to the stark figure of the prince, who stood near the window, glaring out at the street below.  
  
"Uncle Kay was from Moscow," the man listed, counting off relatives as if they were written out on his hand. "Uncle Tristan was from Copenhagen. And every spring we would—"  
  
"You would visit Spala with your father and brother to hunt," Uther interrupted in an unyielding tone, his brow furrowing. Standing near the door, Morgana shook her head, knowing the interview to be over.  
  
"You have been taught well, but you are wasting my time," the prince said coldly. "Don't you have anything better to do than to impersonate my grandson?"  
  
The young man's eyes widened, caught off-guard.  
  
Pursing her lips, the Comtesse de Montferrier planted herself between the fraud and her cousin.  
  
"Out," Morgana demanded, manhandling him toward the door. "Go on!"  
  
Uther stared out the window, sighing heavily.  
  
"The nerve of some of these men," Morgana spat, shutting the double doors behind her. She scowled as she made her way back to a small table with a tray service on it, brushing her skirts out to sit. "Trying to cheat their way to a fortune. They'll stop at nothing." She shook her head again, reaching to pour herself a cup of tea. "We'll have to come up with harder questions next time - something only the real Arthur would know."  
  
"No," said Uther, his voice soft and tinged with pain. "No more. I can't bear to face another imposter."  
  
"But we've really only just begun to search," Morgana insisted, setting down her cup. "Arthur could still be out there somewhere."  
  
Uther moved away from the window, his eyes coming to rest on a faded photograph of his youngest grandson. He picked up the frame, studying it. "No. It was a fool's dream to think that he would still be alive after all these years." He set the photo face down on the table, turning to her.  
  
"I shall have to resign myself to the fact that my grandson is truly lost to me." Morgana was silent, her head lowered. She'd known the search was a long-shot to begin with, but her dear cousin had been alone and in mourning for his lost family for so long that the faint hope of having part of that family returned to him had been enough to garner her full participation. Now, it seemed as though he was worse for the hunt, the light in his eyes growing a little dimmer with each failed hopeful, as carefully as she tried to weed them out.  
  
She had only met the grand duke once in her life, but she'd studied all she could about him after hearing Uther’s announcement of a reward for Arthur's return, foreseeing the need for a buffer between the prince and any misguided con artists. Despite her best efforts, it was obvious that too many phony grandsons had been let through.  
  
More than anything, she wished for some happiness to re-enter Uther's life, to see his loneliness curbed by a familiar face. The loss of his daughter and grandchildren had been a painful one - one that he'd never fully recovered from. But as his one and only confidant, Morgana knew the loss went much deeper than that. Failing to get young Arthur to safety when he'd been in Uther's charge was a crime for which the prince would never forgive himself.  
  
Uther rubbed a hand over his eyes, looking every bit of his age.  
  
"Are you sure about this?" She asked softly. She would not push him to continue, but neither did she want him to later regret his decision to give up.  
  
He nodded once, certain.  
  
"I will see no more men claiming to be my resurrected family. My heart can't take it." He sat heavily, closing his eyes, his head in his hand. "If you would excuse me, Morgana, I'm very tired. I think I shall take my rest early today."  
  
Morgana nodded, standing to give a curtsy before exiting, pulling the doors closed behind her. Inside the room, Prince Uther was left alone with only the ghosts of his past for company.

* * *

Comtesse Morgana Gabrielle Angelique de Montferrier lived in an extravagantly stylish house, bigger than any Arty had set eyes on before. Everything about it - from the rich and well-tended gardens to the ornate and not-at-all-foreboding doorknocker - reeked of taste and class. He was willing to bet the inside was twice as impressive, but presently, Arty was having trouble making it past the gate to the walkway.  
  
They'd stepped off the boat at Le Havre early that morning, catching their bleary-eyed first glimpses of France in the rising sunlight. The change from Russia had been a bit startling, and even Merlin had managed an impressed hum at the architecture. From there, they'd caught a train straight to Paris, with Gwen practically glued to the window the entire time, no doubt memorizing the buildings for future drawings. Arty, too, had set keen eyes on their surroundings, a thrill of excitement going through him at having finally reached the country where his family was sure to be. Looking out at the pedestrians as they neared the centre of Paris, he couldn't help but search their faces for some sense of familiarity.  
  
Merlin had taken the trip as an opportunity for some last-minute quizzing.  
  
"Where were you born?" he'd asked, staring at Arty intensely.  
  
"The Peterhof Palace," Arty had sighed, pulling his gaze reluctantly from the window. Things had not been awkward between them as he'd feared following his sleepwalking episode aboard the ship. In fact, Merlin had been rather pleasant company after that, teasing him with friendly ease and even letting-up on their lessons a bit. Neither of them had discussed the incident since, a fact for which Arty was truly grateful.  
  
In contrast, the taxi ride to the comtesse's home had been awkwardly quiet, all four companions jittery with nervous energy over what was to come. Now, standing outside the gateway, Arty found himself fussing with his collar, desperate to impress his would-be judge.  
  
"Would you knock it off? It's even worse than when you play with that necklace of yours," Merlin sighed, gently slapping his hands away and straightening the collar himself. His hands lingered for a second, their eyes meeting before Merlin brushed the dirt off his tunic with a half-smile. "There. You look good."  
  
He scoffed, adopting his most pretentious expression. "I _always_ look good, Merlin. You should know this by now."  
  
Merlin hid a grin, rolling his eyes. "Of course, Your Grace, how silly of me."  
  
Arty grinned in return before glancing at the doorway again, thankful Gaius would be taking the lead with this particular meeting.  
  
"You're not going to get anywhere standing out here," Merlin said, nudging him onto the walkway. Gwen followed, wearing her best dress, though Arty could spot the smudges of charcoal on the skirts from the hasty sketches of a water fountain she had been unable to resist on their way over.  
  
Standing on the doorstep, Arty took a deep breath, steeling his nerves as Gaius knocked. The door opened, revealing a woman in a maid's outfit.  
  
" _Bonjour,_ " greeted the maid, eyeing their peculiar party with curiosity and perhaps a little disdain.  
  
_"Marguerite, qui est-ce?"_ sounded a voice from inside. A head appeared over the maid's shoulders, a beautiful young woman greeting them with a surprised grin. "Gaius, is that you?" She stepped forward, waving the maid away to allow them entrance.  
  
Gaius swept inside the house, looking quite at ease with their surprising hostess, who Arty recognised as the comtesse herself. The photographs and sketches he'd been shown of her did little justice to her beauty, and not one of them had captured the mysterious glint to her dark eyes that seemed to hint at a secret she delighted in keeping from everyone. With a small tinge of disappointment, Arty noted that he felt no familiarity toward the impressive woman, though he quickly cast the thought aside. _It doesn't mean anything,_ he assured himself, trying to smile. _The comtesse only met Arthur once - she wouldn't be all that familiar anyway._  
  
"My dear Gaius." Morgana greeted the older man with a friendly kiss to each cheek. "It's been too long."  
  
Gaius smiled fondly, grasping her hands before him. "My lady, you look beautiful as ever."  
  
The comtesse turned a curious eye to the rest of their group. "But, what's this? You've brought guests?" She settled on Arty, stiffening slightly.  
  
"Forgive me," Gaius apologized, turning to introduce them. "Comtesse, this is Merlin Emyrov and Guinevere Kuznetsova."  
  
Morgana tore her appraising stare away from Arty, granting the other two a pleasant smile as Merlin bowed his head in greeting. Her gaze lingered the longest on Gwen, who curtseyed shyly, a slight blush adorning her cheeks.  
  
"And, of course, may I introduce His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Arthur Petrovich," Gaius said with gusto as Arty gave his most formal bow.  
  
The comtesse raised a thin eyebrow, withholding judgement. "I see your unexpected visit was not without its purpose, Gaius," she said archly. Arty couldn't tell from her tone what she was thinking. Blatantly, she sized him up, walking in a quick circle around him as he did his best to appear calm and reserved. "Well, you certainly look the part," she allowed, offering a sly wink to Gwen. "But I suppose we shall have to see."  
  
She turned back to her maid, requesting tea for the five of them as Gwen hastened to brush the lingering charcoal dust from her skirts. Arty fought the urge to smirk at her as her blustering soothed his nerves.  
  
"Through here," she beckoned, leading them from the large hallway to a lush cream-coloured sitting room. She took her place on a pin-striped couch, patting the spot next to her for Gwen to sit and gesturing Arty into the adjacent pale blue wing chair. Gaius settled into the far end of the couch, sitting rigidly, his senses on alert, while Merlin wandered casually to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle.  
  
The maid reappeared with a tray of drinks and Arty felt the full weight of Morgana's rapt attention once again.  
  
"How do you take your tea?" the comtesse asked, her eyes trained intently on him in spite of the casualness of the question. Arty knew it was a test.  
  
"With a bit of lemon, no milk or sugar, please," he said, a hint of a smile on his face. He hadn't had to study that one - it was how he'd always preferred his tea.  
  
She nodded at this, neither a smile nor a frown betraying her thoughts, handing him the saucer just as he'd asked.  
  
The questions ranged in difficulty after that. Gaius had been telling the truth when he'd spoke of the astuteness of the comtesse. She'd ask a round of simple questions to get him to lower his guard before quickly challenging him with a hard one, never showing any indication what she thought of his answers. She merely watched him, saucer in hand, an evaluative expression on her face. All the while, Gwen, Gaius and Merlin stayed quiet, never giving more than a small, encouraging grin when he'd answered a question correctly.  
  
Arty figured it had been more than an hour by the time Morgana set her saucer down.  
  
"One last question," she said, holding his gaze, the look in her eyes not unlike that of a cat toying with its meal. "How did you escape from the palace that night?"  
  
He heard Merlin repress a groan behind him, the first noise the other man had made since their arrival. Arty frowned, considering his answer carefully as he tried to remember if Merlin or Gaius had ever spoken of the night of the siege. Thinking hard about the palace, a foggy image implanted itself in his brain.  
  
"...There was a boy..." he said uncertainly, trying to grasp the memory - hold it - for just a little longer, hardly paying attention to the words falling unbidden from his mouth. "He lived in the palace... He made a— a door in the wall..."  
  
The image disappeared, drifting out of his mind like smoke in spite of his efforts to catch it. Remembering himself, he shook his head. "I'm sorry. That didn't make much sense at all, did it?"  
  
Morgana tilted her head, studying him as if in a new light.  
  
"Well?" Gaius pressed, leaning toward her eagerly. "Is he the grand duke?"  
  
"He answered every question," was Morgana's careful response, her expression thoughtful.  
  
Arty blinked, somewhat shocked to find it was over. He'd done it. The prince's first cousin thought he might be the grand duke. Sudden hope flared in him - he'd be meeting Uther next, and then—  
  
Twisting in his chair to grin at Merlin, he was surprised to find that rather than looking happy, the other man seemed pale and distracted, though he did manage a quick half-smile after a moment. Arty turned back, disappointed. _He's probably just shocked I did so well,_ he decided. Once he got over the fact that Arty was a good student after all, he'd be as pleased as the rest of them.  
  
Instead, he shared a grin with Gwen, who clasped her hands in elation as Gaius gave a relieved smile.  
  
The older man was the first to settle his emotions, down to business again as he turned his attention to the silent comtesse. "So, when will he meet with the prince?"  
  
Morgana met his gaze squarely. "He won’t," she said matter-of-factly.  
  
All of the excitement drained out of Arty, his face falling. "What do you mean?"  
  
The comtesse shot him a sympathetic look. "Prince Uther has decided not to see any more potential Arthurs. I'm sorry that you travelled all this way for nothing."  
  
Gaius frowned, "But surely there must be something you can do!"  
  
She shook her head. "He was extremely clear on the matter. This search has been very trying on him and he refuses to face another disappointment."  
  
"But Arty won't disappoint him!" Gwen insisted, pleading. "You said yourself, he answered all the questions. It means so much to him."  
  
Morgana's eyes softened and Arty felt a swell of affection for Gwen. The comtesse furrowed her brow, thinking. All at once, she brightened.  
  
"Tell me, do you like the ballet?" she asked Arty, giving a mischievous smile at his confusion. "The Russian Ballet is performing tonight at the Paris Opera House. I _love_ the ballet, myself, and Uther always accompanies me when they’re in town. We _never miss a performance_ ," she finished meaningfully, her eyes on Gaius.  
  
Gaius broke into a smile once more, nodding his understanding. "Thank you, my lady," he said as Gwen gave Arty an excited hug.  
  
Arty felt relief course through him once more. Tonight! He'd see the prince that soon. It all felt so much more real now, and he found he could hardly wrap his head around it.  
  
Morgana smiled, talking animatedly with Gwen about what she planned to wear that evening, and Gaius looked as if five years had been taken off his life. There was such excitement in the air that none of them even noticed that Merlin had disappeared.

* * *

Merlin stumbled out into the rear garden, loosening his tie as he went, desperate for more air.  
  
When Morgana had asked the question, he'd thought for sure that their con was up. In all of their tutoring of Arty, he'd never once shared the story of the grand duke's escape with him. He'd meant to, of course - it was something the comtesse would surely bring up, and the tale was only known by those who'd been there, giving them an advantage over all others - but every time he'd thought about telling Arty, he'd found an excuse to put it off. A part of him had wanted to keep that night all to himself - like the treasure box - reluctant to part with something that felt special and private. Even Gaius didn't know the full story. He'd lost friends in the palace that night, and had committed the single bravest action of his life only to later believe it'd been in vain. The idea of sharing that with someone else made him uncomfortable, however prudent it might have been for their purposes.  
  
Cursing his own stupidity, he'd waited in disappointed silence for Arty to blow the answer. Instead, he'd received the biggest shock of his life.  
  
Arty _was_ Arthur.  
  
Even now, the realisation surprised him. Part of him felt that he should have known - suspected, at least - but in all of their planning he'd never once considered the idea that he and Gaius would _actually find_ the presumed-dead Grand Duke of Russia! The notion was unbelievable, that he of all people should stumble upon the missing royal as part of a scam to con Prince Uther. But there was no denying it - there was simply no other explanation for Arty knowing that story.  
  
There were other little things as well, now that he thought of it - the facts and trivia that Arty’d seemed to know even without Gaius telling him, the mannerisms he copied almost subconsciously. Even his appearance - Igraine's eyes and fair hair, Ector's strong chin, and Uther's broad shoulders - it all added up to one possible conclusion.  
  
_He must have lost his memory just after the siege,_ he thought, working out the dates Arty had mentioned. Everything fit. _He really_ did _find his family in Paris._  
  
Merlin sat heavily on the edge of a water fountain, all of his thoughts crashing to a stop.  
  
_His family._  
  
Arty was a _velikii kniaz_. For some reason, Merlin felt betrayed by this. After all, what right did Arty have, being a grand duke all this time and not knowing? Letting Merlin believe that maybe—  
  
Pulling his tie off completely, he frowned as another thought hit him, this one hurting more than the last.  
  
_He'll want to stay._  
  
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Merlin shook his head. Of course, he'd want to stay. Arty had spent his entire life searching for family. Once he found them, he'd never think of leaving again. Especially not once he found out that his family was actually royalty.  
  
He wasn't quite sure why all of this came as such a shock. Over the course of their journey, Merlin foolishly hadn't thought much past the reward money, but some small part of him had thought that maybe, he and Arty could—  
  
_What?_ Merlin thought angrily, standing up and pacing the stone walkway of the garden. _Split the reward and run off together? Have another adventure?_ The idea, silly before, bordered on ludicrous now that he knew who Arty really was. Once Arty's lineage became clear, he'd be swept up again in the royal life, with fine wines and fine parties and fine clothes, and even after all these years Merlin remembered his own part well: watching from the servant's entrance, the outsider looking in on a place he didn't belong. Here Merlin was getting excited about a lousy ten million _rubles_ when Arty was probably heir to one hundred million or more.  
  
There was a pain in his chest that was making it hard to breathe, and Merlin was glad for the distraction when Gaius bounded out the door, unaware of the thoughts he'd interrupted.  
  
"We did it!" Gaius heralded, coming to meet him. "He's going to meet the prince!"  
  
He managed a weak smile, but it disappeared quickly enough. Gaius didn't seem to notice as he clapped Merlin on the back.  
  
"Arty was brilliant. Even _I_ almost believed him!"  
  
If possible, Merlin felt even more miserable. He grimaced, knowing the truth would have to come out sooner or later.  
  
"Gaius—" he started, but stopped as Gwen and Arty rushed out onto the terrace, both looking quite eager.  
  
"Morgana's offered to take us shopping!" Gwen twittered excitedly. "She reckons Arty will need some new clothes for the ballet tonight."  
  
Her face was flushed, and Merlin spared a second to wonder what _else_ the comtesse had said to put that exhilarated blush in her cheeks.  
  
Arty was practically beaming beside her, clearly as excited as she was, only his eyes betraying how overwhelmed he felt. He gifted Merlin with a cocky - if slightly confused - look.  
  
"Surprised I aced it?" he asked in that familiar teasing voice.  
  
Merlin rustled up a small grin. "I- er, yeah. Yeah, wasn't sure if you'd mess it up," he said weakly, trying and failing for the same mocking tone.  
  
Smiling more exuberantly than he'd seen him in years, Gaius clapped him on his shoulder a second time. "Well, then, we mustn’t keep the comtesse waiting," he said, heading back inside with Gwen and Arty.  
  
"Right," said Merlin half-heartedly, watching them leave, a sinking feeling taking up firm residence in his gut.

* * *

Paris was even more extravagant than Arty had imagined, and he could hardly stop himself from staring up in amazement at such magnificent sights as the Eiffel Tower or L'Arc de Triomphe - ten times more beautiful in real life than he'd read in books.  
  
Gwen, too, seemed overwhelmed by the city, stopping in outright amazement at an artist painting on the sidewalk, the vivid colours in his depictions of Paris nightlife astonishing her. Eagerly, she'd peppered the artist with questions in broken French until Gaius had finally managed to drag her away.  
  
Morgana, however, was right at home in spite of her part-Danish heritage, guiding them through the shopping district like a woman born for nothing else. Claiming that she rarely had the chance to introduce new people to the city, she pointed out all the sights, tucking Gwen's arm in hers as they strolled down the street, smiling winningly at the vendors they passed.  
  
Inexplicably morose, Merlin trailed at the rear of the group, his hands in his pockets as Gaius aided the comtesse in searching out appropriate theatre-wear for Arty.  
  
When it came to the actual shopping, it seemed that Morgana's generosity knew no bounds. She'd hardly glanced at the prices of the suits they inspected, haggling with the store owners with a ferocity that astonished Arty, until they were literally weighed down with purchases well-below the tagged price. She'd done it all with a viciously sharp smile on her face, waving off their gratitude with a flip of her hand.  
  
"I've all this money from my estate, and hardly a thing to spend it on these days," she'd explained carelessly, running her hands along the fabric of a grey jacket with a nod of approval to the waiting salesman. "You four are the most exciting thing to happen around here in months."  
  
Of course, Arty suspected there might be another layer to her charity, if the flirtatious glances she kept shooting in Gwen's direction were any indication. She'd insisted on Gwen trying clothes on as well, purchasing three new dresses for her in a sweep of benevolence, claiming them to be too perfect for her not to have them.  
  
Merlin was also included in the shopping spree, though he had been rather quiet since they'd left the comtesse's home, distractedly nodding his approval of the suit Gwen had suggested for him without really looking at it. Arty was confused by his behaviour. He wanted to call him out on it, but every time he caught the other man's eye, Merlin would give an overly-cheerful smile and become suddenly interested in a nearby mannequin or display.  
  
Their shopping finally brought them to a very expensive shop on Avenue des Champs-Élysées, Morgana deciding to have two of Arty’s suits tailored for him. While Gwen marvelled at her new dresses, Arty stood uncomfortably before a mirror, a handful of strangers taking measurements and holding up swatches of fabric against him. Morgana instructed them in flawless French, a small shake of her head dismissing the less desirable choices. After what seemed like a lifetime, the tailors finally finished and moved away.  
  
Turning to face the three-way mirror, Arty gawked at his reflection, hardly recognising the person staring back at him. Never had he dreamed he would one day be wearing such fine shirts and suits. He was used to being clothed in the castoffs of other peoples' charity, but looking at his reflection now, the idea that he could really be the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin didn't seem so impossible.  
  
Up until now, the thought that he might be the grand duke had been a bit of a dream - a fantasy he'd indulged in, all the while guarding himself against disappointment, reluctant to let himself hope too much. Sure, there had been occasions where he'd felt he knew the things Gaius was teaching him before the older man even said them, or when a face in an aged photograph had appeared too familiar somehow, but he'd chalked them up to his overactive imagination and his apparently rather impressive acting skills.  
  
Now, with Morgana's blessing behind him, Arty allowed himself to believe it. By tomorrow, he could be a Grand Duke of Russia, back with his family at last and welcomed into Prince Uther's home with open arms. The thought was staggering, and the pressure to impress Prince Uther at the ballet tripled. This could be his one chance to be reunited with his family, and more than anything, he feared ruining it - feared that he would not be the grandson the prince wanted.  
  
Arty sighed, his eyes raking up and down his reflection again, pulling the soft gray material of the suit jacket until it was smooth across his front. Behind him, Gwen beamed appreciatively while Merlin watched him with an unreadable expression.  
  
"I think it'll do," Morgana said simply, nodding at the head tailor who seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at her hard-won approval.  
  
Gaius nodded his agreement. "We still need the formal one for the ballet, though."  
  
Hearing a brief, resigned sigh from the tailor nearest his right, Arty found himself swarmed by a renewed storm of pins and fabrics.

* * *

With the shopping finally behind them, Merlin had hoped to return to the hotel for some solitude and possibly to drown his sorrows in a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild. However, fate - or rather, Morgana - had other plans.  
  
She directed them to a charming little French bistro for a late lunch, her name and reputation securing them the best table. After trying and failing to sort out their menus, the comtesse ordered for everyone and the five of them broke off into conversation.  
  
Morgana teased the folded papers of Gwen's artwork out of her, loudly exclaiming over their brilliance and marvelling at the sketches of her companions, to Gwen's bashful delight. Happily, she regaled Gwen with stories of all the interesting artists she'd met in Paris, and of the art museums that she absolutely had to visit while she was there.  
  
Enthralled, Gwen hung on her every word, hardly noticing that her broccoli quiche had arrived.  
  
Arty, on the other hand, was vibrating with nervous energy, his fingers playing with the stem of his wine glass. If there was any doubt what topic was on his mind, it was soon dispelled when he began peppering Gaius with questions about the Prince of Denmark, as if they hadn't spent the last month and a half teaching him all there was to know about the royal.  
  
At the far end of the table by himself, Merlin quietly tuned out their conversations, moodily resting his head on his fist as he picked at the _croque madame_ Morgana had ordered for him with little interest.  
  
A part of him ached to tell Arty the truth, to lay it all out for him and ask him not to leave, but he had more pride than that. Even if Merlin had realised his feelings for what they were before now, he didn't put much stock in Arty feeling the same way. No one in their right mind would give up a royal heritage for him.  
  
Gwen and Morgana were laughing, their heads ducked together like two women plotting the end of the world. Merlin sighed, taking a sip of his wine. At least _someone_ was happy.  
  
What if he just called the whole thing off? He could tell Gaius and Gwen and Arty that it was over, that they'd tried their best but there was no way Arty would ever convince Uther, and that they'd be better off just leaving instead. He could suggest they try their luck at finding Arty's family in another town. It would be so easy - to tour the rest of France together, seeing the things Arty had only read about in books, the other three none the wiser about what had almost been.  
  
Arty grinned at something Gaius was saying, playing with his necklace, and Merlin felt his stomach drop once more. He couldn't do it. He couldn't rob Arty of his one chance to find a family - his one chance to be truly content - no matter how selfishly he wanted to. Arty deserved to be happy, and that meant being with Uther again.  
  
Merlin pushed his plate away, his appetite lost. It was settled. He'd do the job he came to do, and he'd see Arty back with his family while he was at it. But that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.  
  
Gaius and Arty had turned their conversation from Uther to Paris itself, the latter eagerly comparing it to everything he'd read on the subject.  
  
"...certainly an improvement, but then, anything's better than ship rations, right, Merlin?" Arty turned to him expectantly.  
  
"Hmm? Oh. Right." he nodded glumly, only half-listening.  
  
Gaius raised an eyebrow, silently questioning his behaviour, but Merlin shook his head imperceptibly. He'd fill him in later, away from attentive ears. No use letting the others know about the con.  
  
Having apparently gotten the answer he'd wanted, Arty moved his focus back to their conversation, animatedly discussing the Parisian architecture in comparison to their own.  
  
Merlin drained the rest of his glass, caring little for the poor manners it reflected, and turned his gaze out the window. He'd do right by the grand duke that evening, but for now, he felt more than justified to wallow in self-pity, trying not to think about how eager Arty was to leave him.

 

 **Translations (for those that want them):**  
  
_Marguerite, qui est-ce? - (French)_ Marguerite, who is it?


	8. Chapter 8

Gaius paced nervously in front of the steps to the Paris Opera House, his gloves in his hands as they waited for Arty and Gwen to arrive.  
  
Sitting on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, Merlin fiddled with his white bowtie, feeling slightly foolish. He'd never been fond of this sort of dressing up. He always thought he looked ridiculous with his ears sticking out too far under his top hat and the suit hanging off his skinny frame, even after being tailored.  
  
He sighed, watching as his friend spun and paced again in front of him. "Gaius, there's nothing to be worried about. He _is_ the _velikii kniaz_."  
  
"Of course, of course," Gaius placated absently, still wringing his gloves. "He's hardly recognizable anymore—"  
  
"No," Merlin interrupted, standing and placing his hands on Gaius' arms to keep his attention. "I mean, he really _is_ the grand duke." Off his friend's frown, Merlin sighed. " _I_ was the boy in the palace, Gaius. The one that opened the door in the wall."  
  
He paused meaningfully, letting the message sink in. "He's the real thing, Gaius."  
  
Gaius' eyes widened in surprise. "...That means that Arty really _has_ found his family," he said slowly, his mind working over the events of their journey, adding up the facts. "We actually stumbled onto His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke of Russia!" He turned to Merlin, understanding sinking into his expression. "And you—"  
  
"Will walk out of his life forever," the conman cut in with a wave of his hand, his tone final even as the pang in his chest gave another painful thump.  
  
Gaius frowned. "But, Merlin—"  
  
"It doesn't change anything," Merlin insisted, spotting Arty's car arriving. “We’ll continue the same as before.”  
  
"Surely you can't be serious," Gaius admonished. "He deserves to hear the truth. Take him aside, explain it to him—"  
  
Merlin laughed sarcastically. "And say what? 'Arty, you really _are_ royalty. I know because I used to clean up after your family, and hey, what do you think about us having a drink sometime?'"  
  
"Would that be so bad? It's obvious how you feel about him," Gaius needled, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Merlin retorted, shaking his head. "By the end of the night he'll be back where he belongs, and so will I."  
  
Off Gaius' sceptical look, the conman shrugged bitterly. "Grand dukes don't court kitchen boys, Gaius."  
  
"You have to tell him," the older man insisted.  
  
"Tell me what?"  
  
The pair turned to find Arty frowning curiously at them, accompanied by Gwen.  
  
"Er... What a good job you did today with Morgana," Merlin covered, ignoring Gaius' disapproving frown.  
  
Arty gave a half-pleased smile, though he still looked vaguely suspicious. He, too, was dressed in a top hat and tails, and Merlin begrudgingly noted that he managed to pull it off without looking like an idiot. Gwen, on the other hand, was wearing a plain pale yellow dress with arm-length gloves, her hair swept back and up out of her face.  
  
An awkward silence fell between the four of them before Gaius cleared his throat.  
  
"Guinevere, you look lovely," he complimented, holding out his arm for her to take. "Would you do an old man an honour and accompany him inside?"  
  
Gwen smiled sweetly, taking his arm. "Of course, Gaius."  
  
The pair headed up the steps, Gaius shooting a meaningful look back at Merlin before departing.  
  
"Was that really what you wanted to tell me?" Arty questioned, looking at Merlin with an expression he couldn't describe.  
  
Merlin took him in, admiring for a moment what a magnificent figure he made in such fine clothes, as if he'd been born for nothing else. _He_ was _born for this_ , Merlin reminded himself with another sharp pang in his chest. He shook his head.  
  
"It doesn't matter. We'd better get inside before they close the doors," he said, a sad smile on his face. He led the way into the opera house, Arty trailing behind him, a curious look still on his face.

* * *

The ballet was crowded that evening, and Merlin offered up another word of silent thanks that Morgana had seen fit to secure them tickets. Her generosity had been surprising, to say the least, but she had mentioned during their shopping spree how fond she was of Uther, and how much she wanted to see him happily reunited with his grandson. He briefly wondered how many other hopefuls had come her way, each with the false promise of bringing some light into her cousin's life.  
  
Of course, Gwen's presence hadn't seemed to hurt. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd have thought that the primary motivation behind their day in Paris had been to impress the cheerful young artist. Looking at Gwen in her newly-purchased dress, her eyes wide with wonder at the golden splendour of the opera house, he knew it had worked.  
  
They made their way up the grand staircase to their seats - private boxes, no less! Morgana had spared no expense. He and Arty took the first row, the latter having been conspicuously quiet throughout their entrance. Gwen settled nervously behind them, her fingers twisting in her lap as Gaius took the seat next to her.  
  
Merlin pulled out the opera glasses Gaius had purchased for them, focusing them on the crowd instead of the stage. Prince Uther's box seat was across from theirs, his face as stern as ever as Morgana leant over to say something to him, her gloved hand on his.  
  
"That's him," Merlin whispered, nodding toward the box and handing the glasses to Arty, who turned them eagerly on the aging royal.  
  
Arty let out an anxious breath, his sights on the prince.  
  
" _Please let him remember me,_ " he mumbled to himself, and Merlin politely pretended not to hear.  
  
The lights in the theatre dimmed, and the curtain swept open as the Russian Ballet's performance of 'Sleeping Beauty' commenced, forcing Arty to return his focus to the stage.  
  
Merlin found himself unable to concentrate on the ballet, his mind far too distracted by other thoughts. In a few hours, Arty would be gone from his life forever, and Merlin would be back where he'd started - granted, a few million _rubles_ richer. Somehow, the thought of the money didn't comfort him any.  
  
He glanced over at his companion, smiling lightly as he noticed Arty's hands twisting as nervously as Gwen's, the program he'd received upon entry reduced to scrap paper in his lap.  
  
Discreetly, Merlin closed his hand over Arty's fidgeting ones, effectively stilling them. He blushed a little guiltily at his own actions, but Arty hadn't flinched or pulled away. He squeezed lightly, allowing himself this small moment of contact.  
  
"Relax," Merlin whispered, leaning closer. "It'll be fine."  
  
Arty took a steadying breath and nodded. On-stage, the faeries were dancing around Princess Aurora's cradle, and both men chose to ignore the way Arty's hand turned upward to clasp Merlin's in return.

* * *

Intermission came far too soon for both of them, and the pair sat frozen for a moment after the curtain had closed, steeling themselves for what was next. Finally, Merlin turned to Arty, placing a hand on his arm.  
  
"Come on," he said softly, standing. "It's time."  
  
They made their way out into the foyer, leaving Gaius and Gwen behind in the box. Arty's stride slowed with each step, an expression of something akin to dread edging its way onto his face.  
  
Merlin allowed himself a fond smile, knowing the other man would never admit he was nervous. "You'll be fine. He's going to love you," he assured, giving Arty a gentle push toward the box.  
  
Arty was looking increasingly pale, though no less determined. They stopped outside, each knowing that great change lay just beyond the door.  
  
"Let me go in first and announce you," offered Merlin, moving toward the entrance. Arty stopped him, hesitant.  
  
"Wait, Merlin—"  
  
He turned back eagerly. "Yes?"  
  
Arty's blue eyes met his own, searching. "We've... We've been through a lot together, and... I just..."  
  
"Yes?" Merlin's eyes were wide, his heart thumping inexplicably in his chest. Maybe he hadn't been imagining things. Maybe Arty... "What is it?"  
  
The other man swallowed hard, never breaking eye contact. "I just wanted to say..." He cleared his throat, then looked away. "I wanted to thank you, I guess."  
  
Merlin blinked, feeling let-down. "Oh. Right. Of course." He berated himself silently for his foolishness - what else would it be?  
  
Arty nodded, looking inexplicably disappointed, and turned away.  
  
For a second, he considered calling him back, Gaius’ advice ringing in his ears, but he faltered, his confidence slipping. In a few minutes' time, Arty would be back with his family - back to being a member of a royal household - and Merlin would just be another commoner, barely a blip in his memory. There could be no future for them and Merlin would look like an idiot for trying. Better to get out with some of his pride intact.  
  
“I’d better get going, then,” Merlin said lamely, wishing he didn’t feel ten kinds of cowardly as he turned away. This was all for the best.  
  
He knocked once on the door before pulling it open to step inside the box, not noticing that the latch failed to catch behind him.  
  
Prince Uther was still in his seat, facing the stage, but the comtesse stood waiting near the entrance.  
  
Morgana smiled when she saw him. Remembering her part in the ploy, she walked forward gracefully. "Yes? May I help you?" she inquired loudly enough to be heard by the prince.  
  
He straightened his shoulders. It was now or never. "I wish to speak with His Royal Highness Prince Uther of Denmark. I have brought him his grandson, _velikii kniaz_ Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin. He is waiting just outside the door."  
  
"Oh?" came a disinterested voice from the direction of the seats. "Morgana, you may tell that insolent young man that I have received enough appeals from resurrected Petrovins to fill this opera house twice over. I really cannot stomach any more."  
  
Morgana worried her lip, disappointed. "Perhaps you ought to come back later," she said softly, guiding him to the door. "He's in a bit of a mood."  
  
Knowing this was his only chance, he ducked past her, taking the seat next to the prince. Uther was much older than he remembered, his face lined with age and sorrow, but he remained an imposing figure nonetheless. Merlin cleared his throat. "Your Highness, I know this is forward of me, but please, just listen. My name is Merlin. I used to work at the palace."  
  
Uther stared straight ahead, his tone clipped. "Well, that is certainly a new one. Let me guess the next part - you stumbled upon my grandson and regarded it as your duty to see him returned to me."  
  
" _Yes!_ " Merlin grinned eagerly - pleased to be understood - before catching the sarcastic tone in Uther's voice. "I mean, no," he retracted quickly, "That's not how it started, really, but—"  
  
"I've heard enough." The prince stood, his back arrow-straight in spite of his walking stick. "Do you think you're the first one to train a suitable actor to look and sound like royalty? And for what? You hoped to play on the sentimentality of an old man in order con him out of his money."  
  
"Your Highness, this isn't like that," Merlin shook his head, wincing guiltily at how close to home the prince's words cut. It had been quite true, after all, until he'd discovered Arty's real identity. Reminded of his purpose for being there, he stood as well.  
  
"If you'd just talk to him for a moment, you'd see—"  
  
"I will take no more of this," Uther snapped, turning to join Morgana in the rear of the box. "My grandson is dead. Leave me in peace."  
  
Merlin blocked his path.  
  
"I mean you no harm," he assured the prince, "But you _must_ see him. I know you've been tricked before, but this is the real thing!"  
  
The prince paused, drawing himself up. " _'Merlin'_?" Uther repeated, his eyes narrowing. "I've heard of you. You're the conman from St. Petersburg - the one who was _holding auditions_ to find a look-alike for Arthur."  
  
Hearing this, Morgana's eyebrows snapped together in anger, and she pulled the long silk cord near the door to signal for the prince's security.  
  
Merlin shook his head, upset, for once, that his reputation had preceded him. "This isn't a con, Your Highness, I swear. If you'd just _talk_ to him— we’ve come all this way!"  
  
"Others have come from far greater distances than Russia," replied Uther, unimpressed. He sat on a red settee against the wall of the box. "Did you teach him about my family? Feed him rumours and stories about my grandchildren for him to parrot back to me? How much lower will you stoop to get the reward money? Have you no shame at all?"  
  
"But this isn't about the reward!" Merlin protested, kneeling in front of the prince. "I swear, he really is your grandson!"  
  
Two members of the security detail entered, grabbing Merlin by the arms and pulling him toward the door. He fought against them, pleading with Uther, who had turned his face away.  
  
"You don't understand! He _is_ the _velikii kniaz_! You have to listen to me!"  
  
Merlin was thrown unceremoniously from the box, landing on all fours. The door slammed closed behind him, and the disappointment he felt could only be matched by the sick feeling in his gut when he looked up and found Arty glaring furiously at him.

* * *

"So, it was all a con," Arty accused, his voice dangerously quiet.  
  
He should have known. He should have suspected that there was something in it for Merlin, but hearing the prince's accusations through the partly-open door had been like a punch to the gut. Of course he'd been faking - of course he'd only been in it for the money. Arty had been so stupid to believe otherwise.  
  
Merlin shook his head, standing and holding his hands out. "No, Arty, it's not what you—"  
  
"You lied to me! You _used_ me to try and get that man's money!" he shouted, clenching his fists, caring little for the attention he was drawing from the other patrons in the hallway. How could he have been so foolish? All this time, Merlin had been playing him. Just another con. He thought back to their journey - the fleeting looks between them, the smiles, and the teasing banter - it had all been a lie. Just another way of gaining his trust. And he'd fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.  
  
_Of course it was a lie_ , he thought bitterly. Had he honestly believed that he could be the grand duke? That he'd be welcomed into Prince Uther's family with open arms? All because Merlin had planted the idea in his head, assured him that he would find his family here. And all the while, he'd been counting up the reward money behind Arty's back.  
  
_The reward._ He thought back to Uther's words, tinged with pain: _"Playing on the sentimentality of an old man."_ Prince Uther wanted to find his family as much as Arty did, and Merlin had used that to his advantage as well. Arty felt sick, realising he'd almost been a party to it.  
  
He shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. "I can't believe I trusted you. I thought you wanted to help me find my family, I let you convince me that I could be that man's grandson, but this whole time you were conning me just like you were conning him. I can't believe I thought you were—"  
  
Arty stopped, too angry to continue. He didn't want to give Merlin the satisfaction of knowing how successful he'd been in tricking him, how he'd almost believed he—  
  
He turned quickly, needing to get away. He couldn't stand here any longer, feeling more humiliated than he had in his entire life. Merlin chased after him, a miserable expression on his face.  
  
"Arty, no, wait! You don't understand - you really _are_ —"  
  
The punch came unexpectedly to both of them, startling several gasps from the surrounding patrons. Arty watched with grim satisfaction as Merlin touched the back of his hand to his bleeding lip, his expression pained.  
  
"Arty, _please_ —" he began.  
  
"Just _stay away from me_ , Merlin," Arty threatened in a low voice.  
  
With that, he pushed through the crowd that had gathered, racing out of the theatre, leaving Merlin shouting after him.

* * *

Merlin waited as the prince exited the opera house and headed for his automobile before making his move. While the chauffer was busy opening the rear door for Uther, Merlin slipped into the driver's seat, starting the car and speeding off as soon as the door had been closed, leaving behind a very confused and angry driver.  
  
"Not so fast," the prince admonished absently from the back seat, unaware of the switch, his mind clearly on other matters. Merlin ducked his head but didn't slow down, wanting to put some distance between them and the theatre before the royal suspected anything. He hung a sharp right.  
  
"Where are you going? I wanted to head straight home, Edwin," Uther commanded, his tone hard.  
  
Merlin smiled grimly from the front seat, turning to tip his cap to the prince. "Edwin's not here right now."  
  
Uther's eyes widened in outrage. "You again? Will you stop at nothing?" he said, and for a split second Merlin feared the man would attempt to throttle him in spite of the fact that he was driving. "You will pull this car over at once!"  
  
"Not until you listen," Merlin replied, sounding braver than he felt. Even if he couldn't get Arty's forgiveness he could at least set right the wrong he'd done him. Arty deserved to find his family, if nothing else.  
  
He turned a corner harshly, the tires of the automobile screeching.  
  
"You have kidnapped a member of the royal family," the Prince of Denmark retorted in clipped tones. "Do you really think this will end well for you? If this were a century ago, I could have you flogged."  
  
"That'd be the least of my problems," muttered Merlin ominously.  
  
They drove the rest of the way in silence, Uther glaring furiously at him in the rear-view mirror.  
  
Merlin breathed a small sigh of relief as he pulled up in front of the hotel, determination sweeping through him. He parked, getting out of the car to open Uther's door.  
  
"We're here," he said needlessly. The prince refused to acknowledge him, his mouth set in a thin line.  
  
"Look, just _talk_ to him, just for a few minutes," Merlin pleaded. "Then, I swear, I'll be out of your life forever."  
  
When Uther remained silent, inspiration struck. He crouched down on the sidewalk, pulling out the small silver box he'd been carrying on his person since their arrival in Paris. The red jewels glistened in the lamplight.  
  
"Do you remember this?" he said, watching for a reaction.  
  
Uther stilled, his eyes widening at the sight of the box. "Where did you get that?" he asked quietly.  
  
Merlin handed it to him without a second thought, knowing it was going to a good cause. "He just wants to find his family," he said, his eyes downcast. "Give him a chance."  
  
The prince eyed him shrewdly, his fingers wrapping around the bit of treasure. Suspicion still weighing heavily in his gaze, he nodded.

* * *

Arty angrily tossed his meagre possessions into a bag, the pain in his chest that had plagued him since intermission growing steadily with each second.  
  
He had - quite nobly, he thought - resisted the urge to destroy Merlin's few belongings during his packing, eager as he was to leave before the others returned from the ballet. As much as he wanted to say his goodbyes to Gwen, he didn't think he could bear to face her, knowing what a fool he'd been. She'd trusted Merlin as well, and the pain of her learning that betrayal was not something Arty wished to witness.  
  
He had little notion of where he planned to go, only the driving urge to get away from everyone and everything that had been a part of this whole mess. He set aside the clothes Morgana had purchased for him, trusting Gwen to see them returned. He hoped the comtesse would not think too poorly of him for his part in the deception.  
  
Searching under the bed, he paused as he came across the sketch Gwen had done of him and Merlin dancing. The two charcoal figures looked happy, teasing glints in their eyes as they spun. Arty crumpled the page and tossed it in the trash, offering a silent apology to Gwen. He never wanted to think about any of it again.  
  
A knock sounded from the door, and he bristled. "Go away, Merlin!"  
  
The door opened, to his displeasure, and he turned, ready to give the conman another piece of his mind. Instead, he pulled up short, finding himself face-to-face with a rather morose Prince Uther. "Oh."  
  
Unexpected though Uther's presence was, Arty felt a small flame of hope spark rebelliously inside of him, and he did his best to stamp it out. He wasn't sure that he could face such disappointment twice in one night.  
  
The prince's eyes swept him up and down, taking in his appearance. "So, you're the latest actor from Russia," he said, a severe look on his face.  
  
Arty shook his head, stepping forward. "I'm sorry," he offered earnestly, his conscience tugging at him as he remembered the prince's pain-filled accusations. "I had no idea about the con."  
  
Uther gave no outward indication of believing him. He moved into the hotel room, walking a quick circle around Arty. "And I'm sure the money means nothing to you, either," he said, his tone as dry as sawdust.  
  
"I never wanted money," Arty insisted. "I'm just trying to find my family."  
  
The prince waved his hand, dismissing him. "You look like Arthur. But so did many of the others. It seems that ten million _rubles_ is enough tempt any blue-eyed-blond down on his luck. I have been approached by every con artist from here to Sweden, and I am tired of being deceived."  
  
"I'm not trying to deceive you," said Arty. "I only came here to—"  
  
Uther cut him off. "No. You have already wasted enough of my time," he decided, his face worn. He brushed past him, leaning heavily on his walking stick.  
  
Arty eyed the stick with a frown, his gaze halting on a deep notch in the wood.  
  
"The sword," he said quietly, the brief tail of a memory flittering before his eyes.  
  
The prince stopped. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
But Arty was lost in his own thoughts, the fragments of the memory becoming more vivid. "I begged father to have one - a real sword, like the one Owain got for his birthday. He refused, and Owain teased me for being too young. So I stole the cane from your quarters and challenged him during his fencing lessons, like an idiot. I took a swing at him and he blocked it - I thought he'd cut it in two. You were so angry with us when you found out. But you promised me a real sword when I got older..." he drifted off, his hand subconsciously clutching at the chain he wore under his suit. He shook his head, wondering where the words had come from.  
  
Uther sat heavily on one of the beds, clearly shaken. "How did you know about that?" he asked, his eyes boring into Arty.  
  
"I'm not sure," he answered truthfully, feeling just as shaken. More images were coming, just ghosts and whispers in his mind, and he fought to sort through them.  
  
The prince gestured to the spot next to him and Arty sat.  
  
"What are you wearing around your neck?"  
  
He pulled the chain out from under his shirt, letting the sword fall into his palm for Uther to see. The silver inscription glittered up at him, familiar and yet strangely foreign, bringing with it a new set of half-formed images and memories.  
  
"I've had it for as long as I can remember," he said softly.  
  
Silently, Uther pulled a small silver box from his pocket, holding it up for him to inspect. Arty recognized as the one from Merlin's bag, but it, too, came with a new-found meaning. "The treasure box!" he said, his eyes widening in realisation.  
  
"It belonged to Arthur," the prince said quietly, his tone betraying nothing. "It was—"  
  
"A secret," Arty finished eagerly. "Between the two of us - a place where I could hide things and no one else could find them."  
  
Cautiously, he took the box from Uther, slipping the sword - _the key_ , he remembered - into its hidden slot, turning it. A small smile appeared, unbidden, as he heard the soft _click_ , the lid lifting to reveal an aged photograph. He looked up, meeting the shocked eyes of the prince.  
  
" _Arthur_ ," the prince breathed, staring like he'd seen a ghost.  
  
Arty closed his eyes, swallowing back his relief. "Grandpapa."

* * *

On the sidewalk outside of the hotel, Merlin smiled sadly, watching as the light in the window continued to flicker with the movements of two figures. Enough time had passed for him to reasonably declare success - there was nothing more that he could do there. Arty was back with his family.  
  
To his dismay, the pain in his chest hadn't lessened any with this knowledge. More than anything, he longed to forget it all, to slink back to his shadowy corner of Russia and pretend he'd never fallen for the would-be grand duke.  
  
Uther's shadow ghosted across the window, and Merlin knew he'd stayed too long. He wished them both well, hoping they'd have at least a decent-sized reunion before Gaius and Gwen returned to stumble upon their newfound happiness. He, on the other hand, planned to be long-gone before then.  
  
"Goodbye, Your Grace," he bid quietly, tipping his hat at the closed window above him. He'd sneak back again at first light to collect his things. For now, he turned, the darker streets of Paris calling his name.


	9. Chapter 9

Arty - _Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin_ , he reminded himself silently, the thrill of that knowledge no less exciting the thirty-second time he remembered it - sat on the large four-poster bed of his new bedroom in Prince Uther's estate, seated across from his grandpapa as he looked down at the photographs that Uther had dug out of storage specially for him.  
  
The crates that had housed them were coated with dust, and Arthur had to wonder if this was the first time Uther had opened them since arriving in France. There weren't many, of course - just a dozen or so, some framed, some not - but each one was precious to Arthur, his eyes ghosting over the faces that were so achingly familiar.  
  
They had spent the last three days sequestered in the large estate, getting to know each other once again. Uther had listened with fond attention as Arthur told him stories of the orphanage, and of Gwen. Arthur had listened just as attentively as his grandpapa regaled him with tales of his mother as a young girl, and of his brother and sister as toddlers. He soaked it all in - he knew some of the stories, of course, from his "royalty lessons," but it was something else to hear them and know that this family was truly his.  
  
To his relief, his memory was quickly returning, each small gesture or object seeming to trigger its own set of flashbacks, but he enjoyed hearing the stories from his grandpapa all the same.  
  
Morgana had swept into the house on the second day, unable to keep herself away any longer after receiving Uther's letter. She'd pulled Arthur into a deep hug, surprising him with her tenderness, before pulling away to declare that a ball would be held in his honour. He'd watched with rather amazed fascination as she'd immediately set about making plans, allowing Gwen and Gaius - who'd accompanied her - only a few brief moments of visitation before cajoling them both into preparations for the guest list.  
  
Gwen had been excited for him, as he'd predicted, but Gaius had hung back, silent. Surprisingly, Arthur found he wasn't as angry with the older man as he'd thought he'd be. It was Gaius' teachings and influence, after all, that had brought him to the doorstep of the comtesse, and following a heartfelt apology for his part in the deception, Arthur found he could no longer fault him. When Gwen had timidly questioned why his understanding did not extend to the case of Merlin, Arthur had cleared his throat and promptly changed the subject.  
  
Now, with preparations for his re-entry into society underway, and every major newspaper on the continent teased with hints of his existence, Arthur had little else to do than to enjoy these long visits with Uther, feeling as if he were in a private world that extended no further than his bedroom door.  
  
The prince sifted through the crates on the floor, pausing as he came across the picture he wanted.  
  
"Your mother," Uther explained needlessly, handing him a new portrait of a pale, blonde woman holding a baby that Arthur guessed to be Owain.  
  
Arthur stared at the portrait, his fingers brushing over their faces. It seemed cruel, somehow, to have the pain of not remembering his family replaced with the pain of knowing they were gone.  
  
"They wouldn't want us to dwell," said Uther, reading his thoughts. "We've found each other after all these years, Arthur. They would want us to be happy."  
  
He nodded, forcing a small smile as the older man got to his feet.  
  
"You have your mother's eyes, you know," he continued, walking around his chair to a smaller box on the nightstand that had been brought up separately. "And her laugh, as well. She would be very proud to see the man you've become."  
  
He bent, lifting the lid to reveal a thin gold crown.  
  
"This was to be yours," Uther informed him, picking the crown up with two hands, "When you came of age. Which I suppose you have," he added with a small chortle.  
  
Understanding the solemnity of the moment, Arthur stood, watching with reverence as Uther placed the heirloom on the top of his head. Taking a step back, the prince smiled again.  
  
"I'd like you to wear it to your ball in two day's time," he said, guiding Arthur to the mirror. "It's time to remind the world who you are, and for you to take your place by my side."  
  
Arthur stared into his reflection, swallowing past a lump in his throat as he nodded his agreement, though a peculiar loneliness swept through him. He was a grand duke - the last in a long line of royals - and after years of searching, he'd found his identity at last. So, why did he feel like the person staring back at him was a stranger?

* * *

In a corner of Paris, easily forgotten by all those who saw her, Nimueh stole inside a small house, stepping over the body of the previous owner. Scowling, she slammed down the newspaper she'd found, announcing the rumours of the grand duke's return to high society.  
  
"A ball!" She screeched, anger making her see red. "They would celebrate the son of a tyrant?"  
  
Fuming, a spark of power ignited the newspaper, causing it to burst into flames on the table.  
  
It had taken a considerable portion of her remaining power to bring herself back from the empty plain of existence she'd been confined to, and even more to keep her there, but it was necessary. No longer would she rely on attacking the grand duke from afar. She would get him in person, alone, once and for all bringing about the fulfillment of her curse.  
  
She'd been hiding out in the house for the past few days, well assured that no one would miss the man who'd lived there, reclusive as he was. Biding her time, she'd ventured out today only to find the announcement of the grand duke mocking her at every street corner.  
  
"They bow down before him like sheep - just as they bowed before his parents!" she raged, knocking over the table. They were all the same. The nobles cared little for the lives they destroyed, their weak minds preoccupied with their extravagant parties and riches, bringing down judgement on any who cared to be different.  
  
Looking down at the ashes of the newspaper, she scowled, a plan forming in her mind. She'd get him at the height of his glory; snatch away their precious grand duke from the very celebration meant to honour him.  
  
Smirking, her eyes fell to the vial at her wrist, its power pulsing steadily. She couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. Arthur Petrovin would die the very next evening.

* * *

Merlin took a deep breath, steeling himself before entering the room.  
  
"You sent for me, Your Highness?" he greeted evenly with a respectful bow, his eyes on the pale green wall behind the royal.  
  
The prince stood near his writing desk, his face as expressionless as ever.  
  
"Yes," he replied, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. "You're a rather hard man to track down, _Gospodin_ Emyrov. I feared you had already returned to St. Petersburg."  
  
"I'm just... putting a few final affairs in order, Your Highness," Merlin offered by way of explanation.  
  
Truthfully, he hadn't been quite sure what to do with himself the past five days, wandering around Paris in a bit of a mope before finally resigning himself to the fact that he'd best return to Russia sooner rather than later. When the prince's messenger appeared at the bar he'd been frequenting, he'd considered skipping town early, but ignoring a royal summons from Prince Uther Frederick Alexander Vilhelm of Denmark seemed rather unwise, even for him.  
  
Uther smiled politely, gesturing to a wooden chest on the desk. "And no doubt awaiting news of your reward," he commented, laying his hand on the top of the box. "Here it is - ten million _rubles_ , as promised, to the man who reunited me with my grandson. Take it with my blessing. I can never fully repay the gift you have given me."  
  
_It wasn’t for you,_ Merlin thought glumly. He straightened his shoulders, still unable to meet Uther's eyes. "I'm afraid I can't accept it, Your Highness."  
  
"What's this?" the prince frowned, stepping forward. "You don't want the money? Then, what other service can I offer in repayment to you?"  
  
He shook his head. If anyone had suggested two months ago that he'd willingly walk away from the biggest payday of his life, he'd have called them a liar and probably suspected them of suffering some sort of grave mental illness. Now, he felt like he couldn't leave fast enough, each second spent inside the estate unbearable. "It's not necessary, Your Highness," he said instead. "I'm only happy to have helped your grandson find his family."  
  
He made to bow again, eager to take his leave, but the older man stopped him.  
  
" _Gospodin_ Emyrov - where did you get that box?" Uther's gaze was perceptive, though his tone betrayed nothing. Merlin froze, silent.  
  
"You were the boy from the kitchens, weren't you?" he continued, trying to meet Merlin's eyes. "The one who got us out through the servant's entrance. You saved both of our lives that night, and you brought my grandson back to me after all these years, and yet you want no reward for your efforts?"  
  
Merlin lowered his gaze, knowing he'd been found out. Shaking his head solemnly, he said, "No."  
  
"Then what _do_ you want?" asked Uther, sounding rather as though he knew the answer. Merlin looked over his shoulder at the door, uncomfortable under the royal gaze.  
  
"Unfortunately, nothing that you can give me, Your Highness," he answered truthfully, remembering the betrayed look in Arty's eyes. He bowed quickly, unwilling to let the royal stop him this time. "Good day," he bid, opening the door.  
  
Uther didn't respond, but his eyes tracked Merlin's exit, a thoughtful expression on his face.

* * *

Merlin closed the door to Uther's study behind him, turning only to crash head-on into another occupant of the hallway, both parties giving small exclamations of pain as they sprang apart. Cursing his eternal clumsiness, he apologised, "Oh, I'm sor—"  
  
He cut off, looking up to find himself face-to-face with Arty, a dead weight dropping in his stomach. He'd been hoping against hope to avoid this confrontation.  
  
"Hello," he said quietly.  
  
Arty - _Arthur_ , he reminded himself - was wearing one of the tailored outfits Morgana had bought him, a small gold crown upon his head. It suited him.  
  
"Merlin," Arthur greeted coldly. "Here to pick up your reward money?"  
  
He set his features, washing the emotion from his face. _Just like any other con,_ he schooled himself.  
  
"My business here is complete," he hedged dismissively, moving around the other man.  
  
"Well, I hope it makes you happy," Arthur sniped, refusing to look at him.  
  
The conman paused, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. He'd really made a mess of things, hadn't he? "I'm sure it will," he bit out, trying to sound disinterested and probably failing. Miserably.  
  
"Young man!" From one of the doors of the hallway, Uther's chief attendant straightened his shoulders at his impertinence. "How dare you address the Grand Duke of Russia so informally. You must bow, and address him as 'Your Highness.'"  
  
Arthur shook his head, "No, that's really not-"  
  
"No, please," he interrupted coolly, lowering himself into a bow. "Your Highness."  
  
The other man looked uncomfortable, staring ahead at the wall.  
  
"I'm glad you found what you were looking for," said Merlin in a detached tone.  
  
"Yes," Arthur said, seeming at a loss.  
  
"If you'll forgive me, I have a train to catch." He bowed again - he certainly was getting his practice today, wasn't he? "Good day, Your Highness."  
  
He turned, walking past the attendant, who was still glaring disapprovingly at him. He stepped up his pace as he neared the stairs, wanting nothing more than to be free of it all, but knowing he had one more stop to make. Rounding the corner, he refused to look back at Arthur, whose heavy gaze had followed him.

* * *

He found Gaius in another room of the mansion, busy straightening his collar and admiring his military dress in the mirror. Merlin knew it had been a number of years since his friend had worn finery such as this, but then, it had been a number of years since a traditional imperial-style ball had been held.  
  
"You look good for an old man," he called from the doorway. Gaius turned, a pleased smile on his face.  
  
"Merlin," he greeted warmly.  
  
Merlin walked toward him, his coat over his arm and his smile a bit forced. He'd left Gaius a note at the hotel, explaining matters, but this was the first time he'd faced his friend since the ballet.  
  
"Who else would it be?" he threw in for old time's sake, inspecting his friend's outfit with approval. "You're doing well for yourself, I see."  
  
Gaius nodded.  
  
“It seems that the prince has himself a fine assortment of rare paintings, and would like to renew his interest in the business of collecting them. He has agreed to overlook my – shall we say, colourful – past in favour of putting my skills at detecting forgeries to good use.” Gaius adjusted his collar again. “It would certainly be a relaxing change from my old career. There may be some use for an old relic like me, yet.”  
  
Merlin's smile was more genuine this time, pleased that his friend had found a place for himself.  
  
"I don't suppose you'll be attending Arty's reception tonight?" Gaius asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
He frowned, looking away.  
  
Gaius sighed, a pitying look on his face. "I really can't talk you out of this?"  
  
The younger man shook his head. "'Course not. You know how stubborn I am," was the obligatorily impertinent reply, though it fell flat.  
  
"Is that Merlin?" Gwen called from the next room. She rushed in, looking very pretty in a light pink dress that was - for once - free of charcoal smudges and dirt. Her smile quickly fell as she noted Merlin's attire. "You're not leaving, are you?"  
  
"Yeah," he nodded, brushing his hair out of his eyes before frowning. "Thought you'd be mad at me."  
  
"I was a bit at first," she admitted, "but Gaius explained everything. I can't say I agree with what you meant to do, but I know you were trying to do the right thing in the end." She paused, looking serious. "You should try and explain it to Arty."  
  
"Nah. He doesn't want to listen. Best just to make a clean break of it," he said, sounding more sure of himself than he felt. "You sticking around?"  
  
She blushed, looking down at her skirts. "Morgana's going to introduce me to some of the artists here. She showed my work to one of the art schools and they're eager to meet me."  
  
"Really? That's great!" Merlin congratulated, a bit stunned. It seemed that everyone was finding their way in Paris. _Everyone except me, that is_ , he thought bitterly, but he quickly brushed his self-pity aside, willing himself to be happy for his friends. "I'm sure they're going to love you."  
  
Gwen's face seemed to crumple all at once and she rushed forward, sweeping him into an unexpected hug. Surprised, Merlin patted her back.  
  
Just as suddenly as she'd started, she broke the embrace, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— it's just— I'll miss you," she finished sadly.  
  
He smiled. "I'll miss you too, Gwen."  
  
She looked back to the adjoining room, "I should probably go finish getting ready. Morgana's taking me out for lunch before the ball tonight."  
  
Merlin's grin turned slightly teasing as she fought another blush. It seemed her relationship with the comtesse had not suffered in light of the recent unpleasantness.  
  
"Well go on, then, you don't want to keep her waiting," he said, shooing her off into the other room. She waved, disappearing through the doorway.  
  
Gaius smiled after her, his hands folded in front of him. "They're an unusual match," he commented idly, "But I think they'll do well together."  
  
He rolled his eyes, perfectly aware of the message his friend was implying. "It's not the same, Gaius. He's where he's supposed to be."  
  
"And what about you?" his friend asked archly, raising an imposing eyebrow. Merlin knew he'd miss that most of all.  
  
"Me? I'm still searching," he offered lightly. He held out his hand, his smile rueful. "Look me up if you're ever in St. Petersburg again."  
  
Gaius frowned, pulling him into a hug instead.  
  
"You're making a big mistake, Merlin," he advised in a wise tone of voice. "Take care of yourself."  
  
Merlin grinned cheekily, pulling out of the hug. "Hey, you know me!" he smiled, shrugging on his coat.  
  
"That's what I'm afraid of," came the dry retort.

* * *

Uther's estate had been dressed up by an expert hand, Morgana's finishing touches easily making Arthur's reunion ball the event of the year. Guests had arrived from all over the continent - reporters and dignitaries alike - everyone chomping eagerly at the bit to see if the rumours of the rediscovered grand duke were true. In true Morgana style, attendees had been told to dress in the traditional clothes of the imperial court, the likes of which Arthur had not seen since his early childhood.  
  
Tugging at the front of his tunic, Arthur turned the corner to the ballroom, finding Uther and the comtesse waiting for him. A curtain had been erected just behind the dais, separating them from the guests, who were already busying themselves with dancing and drink as they awaited Uther's official introduction of Arthur.  
  
"Everyone who's anyone is here," Morgana remarked to Uther, having yet to notice Arthur's presence as she peeked out through the red velvet curtain at the richly-clothed guests. Swathed in a deep purple court gown with open sleeves and a dark red sash, the comtesse drew the gaze of every man and woman, and she knew it. "I never thought I'd live to see the beauty of Russia again. It's just like the old days I remember as a child."  
  
"No," Prince Uther shook his head beside her, glancing out at the crowd with little interest. "The old days are behind us. These mark the beginning of a bright new future."  
  
Arthur cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and the pair quickly turned to greet him.  
  
Dressed all in white, with gold trimmings to match his crown and a pale blue sash running diagonally across his chest, Arthur was slightly uncomfortable in his new clothes, but somehow he knew he looked the part. Uther regarded him thoughtfully, a strange expression on his face.  
  
Frowning, Arthur stepped forward. "Is there something wrong, Grandpapa?"  
  
The Prince of Denmark shook his concern away with a small smile. "No, Arthur. Nothing is wrong." He moved closer, resting his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "It's just that you remind me so very much of your parents. They would have been proud to see you tonight. You truly are a Petrovin."  
  
The grand duke glowed under the compliment, trying to keep his embarrassment off his face.  
  
"You look very regal, Arthur," Morgana commented cheerily, moving to kiss him on the cheek. "Now, I suppose I'd better join the guests. They're growing quite restless without a hostess."  
  
She parted the curtain, stepping out onto the dais. Arthur peered out after her, his eyes eagerly scanning the crowd.  
  
"He's not out there," Uther informed him idly.  
  
Arthur scoffed. "I know. Probably off somewhere blowing the reward money as fast as he can, the idiot—" he coughed, realising he'd spoken aloud. "I mean— Sorry, who's not there, Grandpapa?" he backtracked innocently, wincing inwardly at his screw-up.  
  
Uther smiled knowingly.  
  
"You know, you were born for this life, Arthur," he changed topics effortlessly, gesturing toward the impatient crowd. "When you were growing up, it was all I or you parents ever wanted for you. But now, I wonder if it's what _you_ really want."  
  
Arthur frowned at him, letting the curtain fall closed. "What do you mean? Of course I want this. Finding you - being here - it's what I've always dreamed of."  
  
"No," Uther countered softly, "What you really wanted was a family. And you've found one. No matter what, you will always have me, Arthur. You will never stop being my grandson, regardless of whether you are the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin or Arty."  
  
Arthur's frown deepened. What was he getting at?  
  
The prince placed a hand on his shoulder again. "He didn't take the money."  
  
His eyes widened, surprised. "He... didn't?"  
  
Uther smiled sadly. "Finding you again has brought more joy into this old man's life than I ever thought possible. The only thing that could match it would be seeing you happy."  
  
Still reeling from the last bit of information, Arthur nodded numbly, unsure what to say.  
  
Thankfully, it seemed that Uther was finished. Straightening his tunic, the older royal pushed the curtain aside.  
  
"Think about what I said, Arthur."  
  
The red velvet swished back into place, leaving the grand duke alone with his thoughts.  
  
Merlin hadn't taken the money? All this time, Arthur had thought— And when he'd seen him at the estate that morning - Arthur frowned, trying to remember _where_ in their encounter Merlin had confirmed he was taking the _rubles_ Uther had offered but he suddenly couldn't recall. He'd let Arthur believe—  
  
Arthur frowned, sagging against the wall, remembering the wounded look on Merlin's face after he'd punched him. He'd replayed that encounter again and again, searching for the bit of malice - the bit of devious scheming - that would confirm the accusations he'd levied, but all he'd found was the same big-eared doe-eyed idiot he'd always known. He couldn't decide if that made Merlin the world's best conman, or Arthur the world's biggest chump.  
  
"Art— Arthur? Are you all right?"  
  
His head jerked up to find Gwen standing in the doorway, worry evident in her gaze. He pushed away from the wall, waving off her concern.  
  
"I'm fine. It's nothing."  
  
A nervous grin captured her face as she moved more fully into the room.  
  
"What do you think?" she asked, giving a small twirl. She was a vision in pale lilac, the skirts of her gown flowing prettily around her feet. Her unruly hair had been pulled back and twisted in a way that was actually quite flattering, though a curl still hung loose alongside her face, and Arthur rather believed she had pulled it free herself in an effort to make her reflection a little more familiar.  
  
He smiled. "You look lovely, Gwen."  
  
"Morgana picked it out for me," she blushed.  
  
He raised both his eyebrows, barely containing the teasing grin that threatened to break across his face. "Did she?"  
  
If possible, Gwen's face reddened further, her eyes ducking in embarrassment as she picked at invisible threads on the skirt of her dress. "She's rather lovely, isn't she?"  
  
Arthur moved to stand in front of her, his expression turning serious. "I'm glad you're happy, Gwen," he said honestly, offering her a small smile.  
  
"I'm happy for you, as well," she said, grinning brightly. "To think - two months ago, you were just an orphan from nowhere, and now you're a grand duke!"  
  
His smile froze, reminded of Uther's words, but Gwen didn't appear to notice.  
  
"Well, I'd best go in, I think," she said, smoothing her already pristine skirts. "Wish me luck?"  
  
Arthur nodded, stepping back as she walked toward the curtain. "I'll follow you in a bit," he said, watching her go.  
  
The curtain fell closed, leaving him to his thoughts once again.

* * *

The train station was busy, the line for tickets stretching back to the edge of the platform. Merlin sighed, shuffling his feet as the next person stepped up to the kiosk.  
  
He should have bought his ticket earlier, but some part of him had been reluctant, hoping that maybe circumstances would change. After his trip to Uther's home that morning, however, he knew he couldn't leave fast enough.  
  
In front of him in line, a pair of lovers clasped their hands, grinning at each other like love struck idiots. Merlin scowled, looking away. Why was it that when you were feeling miserable it seemed like everyone else in the world couldn't be happier?  
  
"Next!"  
  
The line moved forward as the agent hollered. Still a few spots from the front, Merlin pulled his cap down lower against the cool night air, patting his pockets for his new exit visa - a parting gift from Gaius, who'd declared it to be the last forgery he'd ever make. He groped around in his side pocket, his hand stilling as it met with a crumpled piece of paper instead. Pulling it out slowly, he found himself looking down at a sketch of him and Arty dancing.  
  
He'd rescued the sketch from the trash bin at the hotel in a moment of self-pity, knowing he'd regret it later, and promptly forgotten about it. He stared down at the drawing, finding a somewhat fond smile working its way onto his lips at the smirk on Arty's face, perfectly captured by Gwen's hand. He smoothed out the wrinkles of the paper, his fingers lightly brushing across the two figures, the charcoal smudging his hand.  
  
"Next!"  
  
The woman behind Merlin nudged him impatiently, eager to move forward. Merlin looked up, startled to find himself the next in line, the ticket agent glowering at him from behind the gate. He frowned, looking back at the drawing in his hand.  
  
"Next!"

* * *

The ball was in full swing, nobles and royals enjoying the freely flowing champagne and talented musicians, an earmark of any party Morgana threw. Gwen had attached herself to the comtesse's side, smiling nervously as she was introduced to three baronesses and a lord, Morgana's hand resting encouragingly on her waist.  
  
Of course, all anyone wanted to talk about was Arthur. Morgana and Uther had decided to play things coyly, neither confirming nor denying his existence until the official introduction could be made, drawing out the suspense. Surprisingly, the guests seemed to enjoy this as much as an actual confirmation, and the tantalising bits of gossip Morgana spun out of nothing were quite entertaining.  
  
Morgana was clearly made for this life - the way she charmed and toyed her way through the crowd was a marvellous sight to see - but she'd never once made Gwen feel left out, always careful to include her in any new topic of discussion. Gwen had found herself blushing heavily as the comtesse brought up her talent for art, prompting an extremely fascinating conversation with a Monsieur Signac, who admitted to being quite interested in younger artists.  
  
It'd been the better part of an hour before Gwen realised that Arthur had yet to make an appearance. Frowning, she scanned the room for some sign of her friend, wondering if he'd slipped in quietly without waiting for his introduction, but he was nowhere to be found.  
  
Relaxing her frown into a polite smile, she excused herself from a discussion on the latest Parisian fashions, citing a need for fresh air. Morgana's concerned gaze trailed her as she left, but she shook her head, assuring her that everything was fine.  
  
A small handful of guests lingered in the hallway, more than a few couples searching for a moment alone. She made her way toward the back terrace, intending to duck around the side to where she'd last seen Arthur, wondering what was keeping him.  
  
Finding the terrace completely empty, she sighed, carefully picking up her skirts so they wouldn't wrinkle as she walked along the garden path to the rear door. Suddenly, a glitter of light caught her eye. There, hovering just out of reach, was a small ball of light, flickering and blue in the sky.  
  
The light was rather beautiful, and Gwen couldn't help but stare at it, entranced. There was something wonderful about it, the way it danced and sparkled before her eyes. Slowly, the light moved away from the French doors, beckoning.  
  
_'Follow it,'_ a voice seemed to whisper, and Gwen found herself walking as if in a dream, the light guiding her every step. She couldn't bear to look away, couldn't stand the thought of it disappearing from her sight for even a second. She needed to follow it. Needed to do what it asked, for something very bad would happen if she didn't she was sure.  
  
Trailing back down the garden path - the party a dim memory behind her - she smiled dreamily, a small gasp of a laugh escaping her as the light gave an extra flicker of brilliance just for her.

* * *

Arthur sighed, looking out at the party from behind the curtain. Everything he'd ever dreamed of and more was waiting on the other side, but somehow he couldn't force himself to take the first step. How was it that years of waiting meant nothing to him now?  
  
He watched the guests sip champagne, simpering laughter filling the ballroom as he thought back to what Uther had said earlier. Was this really what he'd been waiting for all these years: dull conversations with dignitaries, half his time spent worrying about standing correctly and dancing perfectly and never betraying his inner thoughts? In all the time he'd spent practicing royal protocol with Gaius and the others, he'd never envisioned having to make it a part of his daily life. And now that his memories were returning, he could recall many a ball spent uncomfortably dressed and bored out of his mind as he struggled to be respectful at his parents' wishes. He'd _never_ liked the restrictions of protocol, or the heavy responsibilities placed on him as a member of the Petrovin line, but at the time he'd known nothing else. Now, however...  
  
He frowned. He'd wanted to find his family, all right, but he'd never dreamed it would come with a royal price tag.  
  
A soft clatter from outside stole his attention, and Arthur moved to the window, letting the curtain drop back into place.  
  
Gwen was wandering through the moonlit gardens below, a vacant look on her face that made Arthur's hackles rise in concern. Frowning again, he headed for the nearest doors, stepping out onto the patio.  
  
The rear gardens were a maze of pathways, running around a fountain in the middle, and ultimately leading to an exit at the far gate, the door nearly invisible behind the wall of ivy that had attached itself to the wrought iron fence. Taking the stairs down from the stone patio two at a time, Arthur trailed after his friend, an unsettled feeling in his gut. Something wasn’t right about the way she was walking, her face devoid of any real emotion.  
  
"Gwen?"  
  
She didn't appear to hear him, the train of her dress dragging through the dirt on the path as she walked. Arthur's frown deepened - Gwen wouldn't ruin the dress Morgana had gifted her with so casually. He stepped up his pace as she neared the gate, her eyes fixed on the air just in front of her face.  
  
The garden opened up onto one of the main streets of Paris, and Gwen wandered aimlessly, ignoring the automobile that honked and slammed on its brakes as she stepped in front of it.  
  
Arthur's heart skipped a beat, truly worried now as he darted after her across the street, the angry driver cursing them both in French. "Gwen!"  
  
He lost sight of her around a corner, the streets growing oddly deserted for that time of night. Rounding the corner onto Pont Alexandre III, he froze.  
  
A hooded woman stood before him in the centre of the bridge, hints of a crimson dress spilling out beneath her cloak. Behind her he could see Gwen, a crumpled heap on the stone pavement.  
  
"Greetings, young Petrovin," the woman hailed mockingly, her voice sending chills up his spine.  
  
Arthur stepped forward, clenching his fists. "What did you do to her?"  
  
"Nothing she won't recover from," the stranger replied carelessly, pale hands moving to grip the edges of her hood. "She means little to me. It is your own well-being that should concern you."  
  
She pushed back the hood, long dark hair tumbling forth to frame cold eyes.  
  
"You!" His eyes widened. The woman from his nightmare - she was real? His memory sparked and images began to fill in the blanks. Up until now, he'd avoided thinking about the night of the siege, but it all came rushing back to him in an instant. The woman - Nimueh - had been Owain's healer. And a sorceress.... He frowned, thinking. She'd done something.... A curse...  
  
He shook his head. All this time, he'd been remembering her face without realising it.  
  
"You were dead," he said with certainty, his mind replaying the memory that had haunted him. "I saw you fall through the ice."  
  
Nimueh smirked, parting her cloak. "The benefit of selling your soul is that it makes it rather hard to die. What you saw was not what it seemed." As she spoke, she held her hand out before her, a ball of fire igniting in her palm. "I've waited a decade for my revenge to be complete, Your Highness. Tonight will end my suffering, and yours."  
  
Her face contorted with rage as she hurled the ball of fire toward him. Arthur leapt out of the way as it exploded on the spot where he'd been standing, bits of concrete and stone flying through the air. He hit the ground hard, struggling quickly to his feet as she took aim again.  
  
"Do not think I don't have the patience for this," she assured him, launching a larger ball in his direction. "I've waited ten long years. I don't mind playing with you a little longer."  
  
He leapt aside again, trying to draw her fire away from where Gwen lay prone, his gold crown flying loose from his head to skid across the asphalt. This was insane. He was being attacked by a sorceress in the middle of Paris and not a single person was around to help him. Anger burned inside him as he took refuge against the large stone rail of the bridge. This particular sorceress happened to be responsible for his family's deaths.  
  
Another fireball flew, Arthur's jump a hairsbreadth slower than he'd needed it to be and the entire bridge shaking as the place where he was standing broke loose from its foundations. The ground dropped out beneath him, Arthur’s fingers grasping for purchase along the cobbled stone of the bridge, and he barely managed to grab hold. The slab of pavement hung at an angle, suspended only by the bent metal bars inside the concrete, creaking as they strained to hold it in place.  
  
Nimueh's face appeared over the edge above him, a vindictive smile on her face as she watched him struggle to hold on.  
  
"I expected so much more."

* * *

Merlin rounded the corner of _Rue Bayard_ at a jog, his coat billowing in the cool wind that had come up out of nowhere. He set his jaw as he went, feeling both determined and vaguely ill for what he was about to do. He was still a few blocks away from Uther's estate when it suddenly occurred to him he hadn't put much thought into what he was going to say when he saw Arty. He couldn't very well show up uninvited at Arthur's re-introduction ball without any sort of plan for getting Arty to forgive him.  
  
His brain was desperately trying to work out a beautifully-worded speech that wouldn't make him sound like a complete idiot when a bright light on the distant Pont Alexandre III caught his attention.  
  
Venturing closer, Merlin's eyes widened at what was easily the most bizarre - and terrifying - scene he'd ever witnessed. A woman in a red dress was swirling in a pool of an unnatural red light, pieces of the semi-destroyed bridge around her feet, as she grinned cruelly down at—  
  
"Arty!" Merlin gasped, breaking into a run at the sight of his friend dangling helplessly from a broken piece of the bridge, his grip on the stones obviously slipping even as he struggled to pull himself up. Giving no thought to what could have led to this strange show-down, Merlin put all of his focus on stopping the woman who clearly intended to "help" Arty fall.  
  
He ran full out, his lungs aching with the unexpected effort - he'd get there too late! - as Arty's grip noticeably loosened. Any second, he'd lose his hold completely, plunging into the Seine below...  
  
_That can't happen,_ he thought, forcing himself to go even faster. _I won't let it._

* * *

Arthur grunted with the effort, the muscles in his arms burning as the metal bars holding the hunk of stone in place creaked and bent, bringing the slab almost vertical.  
  
"How brave you are," Nimueh taunted, an amused smile on her face. "Are you still trying to win?"  
  
He felt his fingers slipping, watching as a handful of pebbles broke loose from the stone and rolled off the edge of the slab, plunging down into the water below. Feeling as though he'd just witnessed his own fate, Arthur redoubled his efforts, throwing his elbow higher up on the precipice, only to have the entire thing tip forward again, his feet dangling precariously beneath him.  
  
Nimueh drew closer, looking pleased.  
  
"I've waited a long time for this, Your Highness," she informed him, raising her arms. Something like electricity seemed to spark from her fingertips, making Arthur's hair stand on end as she poised to strike.  
  
A metal pole swung out of nowhere, connecting solidly and sending her flying. To Arthur's amazement, Merlin's head appeared over the side of the bridge.  
  
"That's twice I've saved you," Merlin said breathlessly as he scrambled down on his stomach to reach out a thin hand out to Arthur.  
  
Struggling to reach him without losing his grip, Arthur grunted. "And here, I thought we weren't keeping score. What took you so long?"  
  
"There's gratitude," Merlin strained, his fingers just inches from Arthur's own. "I don't know why I'm bothering. That big head of yours would probably just float, anyways."  
  
Nimueh appeared over Merlin’s shoulder, her face twisted in rage. Arthur felt rather than saw her power building again, the red phial at her wrist humming to life to envelop one of the winged horse statues that guarded the bridge.  
  
" _Merlin, look out—_ "  
  
Arthur's eyes were as wide as saucers as the stone statue came to life, ramming into Merlin and catapulting him to the other side of the bridge.  
  
"How _dare_ you interfere again," sneered Nimueh, her focus now entirely on Merlin. Arthur took advantage of it, heaving himself up as best he could, his fingers raking across the broken concrete as he struggled to support his own weight. With a heavy grunt, he hoisted himself over the side, relieved to be on steady ground once more.  
  
Merlin was still struggling with the former statue, trying to keep out from under its gigantic hooves. Arthur picked up a chunk of broken stone, throwing it at the distracted sorceress, who whirled around, blasting it to pieces.  
  
"Did you think it would be that easy?" she intoned, fire in her eyes.  
  
Arthur leapt out of the way of a lightning blast, scorching the stone where he'd stood a moment before. There was no way they could keep doing this. She was too powerful, and they had no way of fighting back. They needed a plan.  
  
Behind her, Merlin had somehow managed to get himself on the back of the winged horse, the statue bucking wildly beneath him as he held on for dear life.  
  
"Merlin, you idiot! Stop messing around!"  
  
The other man scowled. "I'm a little busy!" he shouted, gripping the horse's mane. "A _statue_ is trying to _kill_ me!"  
  
The horse took flight, still bucking as it soared higher and higher above the bridge. With one great twist, it knocked Merlin from its back, a startled yell accompanying his fall. Arthur watched in horror as he plummeted to the ground, hitting hard, and did not move again.  
  
"Merlin!"  
  
He raced forward, but Nimueh stepped in his path.  
  
"Now there is no one left for you to cower behind," the sorceress hissed, raising her hand.  
  
The air around him exploded, sending him flying. He hit the ground hard. _Got to keep moving,_ he thought to himself, coughing up brick dust as he tried to get his bearings again. Across the bridge, Nimueh smirked at him. It was then he noticed the explosion had loosened one of the stone pillars above her. Arthur stood on wobbly legs just as a chunk of concrete broke off.  
  
Forced to jump out of its path, the sorceress landed hard, the red phial at her wrist snapping free of its thin cord.  
  
The vial skidded toward Arthur, who had a quick flash of memory of a similar phial skating across the ice, Nimueh running protectively after it. Inspired, he made a run for it, stopping the vial's path under his foot.  
  
Nimueh drew herself up, incensed and fearful all at once.  
  
"Give me that!" she demanded, her eyes burning red.  
  
Arthur applied pressure to the outer glass, a soft crack accompanying the movement, and was rewarded with a pained cry from the witch as she struggled forward toward him.  
  
"Is this important?" he taunted, new hope burgeoning within him. "You need this, don’t you? You need it to survive."  
  
He raised his foot and stomped on the glass, shards breaking off to shower the cobblestone, a vindictive smile on his face as Nimueh screamed in rage and doubled over.  
  
"I'll destroy you," she vowed, her outer edges beginning to wither like dry paper.  
  
"I was just a child, and you took my family from me," he told her, raising his foot again.  
  
A second stomp shattered the glass almost completely, Nimueh crouching forward in pain as she cursed his name.  
  
Arthur drank in her pain, the memories of the family he'd lost and the face that had unknowingly haunted his nightmares all these years flashing before his eyes. Setting his jaw, he raised his foot again.  
  
"I hope you burn," he pledged, slamming his foot down.  
  
Nimueh screamed, an unholy sound that made him want to cover his ears and hide. Fire seemed to burst from her skin, her flesh melting away before his very eyes. Arthur shielded himself from the brilliance of it, wishing all at once for it to be over.  
  
And then it was. With one last screech of terror, she was gone, leaving only a patch of scorched stone to mark her former place, the vial beneath Arthur's foot grinding itself into fine sand that blew away with the breeze.  
  
Arthur was left frozen for a moment, hardly daring to believe it was finished. His eyes washed over the wreckage of the bridge - wondering how he could possibly explain the damage - coming to rest on a still figure laying a few metres away. His stomach clenched.  
  
"Merlin!"  
  
He rushed to his side, his concern deepening when Merlin gave no signs of movement.  
  
"Oh, come on," he said, swiftly checking him over for injury. "There's no way that fall did you in. Your head’s too hard. You're just milking it now."  
  
There was no response. Arthur felt something wrap around his heart and squeeze, fear stealing his breath. He forced out a laugh, willing a smirk onto his face even as his hands clutched desperately at Merlin’s shirt.  
  
"You're not fooling anyone, _Mer_ lin," he joked, giving the other man a quick shake. "If you don't get up in the next two minutes, I'm never speaking to you again."  
  
" _Promise?_ "  
  
Merlin’s voice was weak and thin, but to Arthur it was beautiful. He sagged in relief as Merlin groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow as the palm of his other hand pressed against his aching head. Impulsively, Arthur pulled him into a hug.  
  
"You're all right!"  
  
" _Ow!_ Watch it!" Merlin hissed under the strength of the embrace.  
  
He pulled away immediately, embarrassed at his own actions. "Sorry, I—"  
  
"Yeah, yeah," the other man winced, clutching his midsection. "I'm being a girl. We can't all manfully hide our pain, you know."  
  
Arthur helped Merlin slowly to his feet, an awkward silence setting in as they remembered their last encounter.  
  
"You didn't take the money," Arthur said softly.  
  
"Yeah, I know," Merlin replied, a tinge of forced humour in his voice. "I think you've been a bad influence." His smile disappeared, replaced by guilt. "Look, about what ha—"  
  
The press of Arthur's lips against his caught Merlin by surprise, but he adapted quickly, giving back as good as he got. Lithe fingers found their way to the back of Arthur's head, grabbing small fistfuls of hair as one of his hands found its way to Merlin's waist, gently running up to tease at the ribs he could feel beneath the fabric. Arthur felt the knot in his chest loosen.  
  
They pulled back, a slow grin building on Merlin's face as they stared into each other's eyes.  
  
"So, you two have finally figured things out, then?" Gwen inquired tiredly from a few metres away. Arthur gave a guilty jolt at having momentarily forgotten about her, but her expression bore no ill-will. Her once-beautiful dress was torn and stained with dirt, her previously upswept hair now a mess, but she appeared otherwise unhurt. In her hands was Arthur's gold crown, with hardly a scratch to show for it.  
  
The sight of the crown seemed to bring Merlin crashing back to reality, his hands dropping reluctantly from Arthur's sides.  
  
"You should be getting back," he said flatly, stepping back and avoiding Arthur's eyes. "They're missing their grand duke."  
  
Arthur frowned, flashing back to his earlier conversation with his grandpapa. He knew what awaited the Grand Duke Arthur Ectorovich Petrovin back at Uther's estate, the predictability of royal life every bit as certain and safe as the factory job back in Russia. But what about plain old Arty? What sort of life awaited him?  
  
Looking at Merlin’s slightly swollen lips, he decided he'd rather like to find out.  
  
Placing two fingers underneath his chin, he lifted Merlin's gaze to meet his own. Two pairs of blue eyes - one dark, one light - stared into each other.  
  
"What if I don't want to?" he asked quietly.  
  
If he'd had any lingering doubts about his choice, the surprised smile that lit up Merlin's face did well to vanquish them. Grinning like a schoolboy, he surged forward again, clumsily reclaiming the other man's mouth, happier than he could ever remember being. This was what he wanted. This and nothing else. Not crowns and titles, but the chance to wake up every day to Merlin looking at him with that infuriating mixture of affection and impertinence.  
  
Merlin's mouth nuzzled against his, a happy hum escaping his lips as he wrapped his arms around him.  
  
" _Aww._ "  
  
He'd forgotten their audience again, but this time he was far too happy to care.  
  
His arms still wrapped around the smaller man - all skin and bones, he'd have to remedy that - Arty turned to Gwen, who'd been watching the exchange with a rather sappy look on her face, her hands clasped in front of her chest.  
  
"Gwen, I have a big favour to ask of you."

* * *

Prince Uther was very quiet where he stood in his study, waiting as Gaius finished reading the note. They'd both been summoned from the ball by a rather insistent Morgana, her new companion in tow, her expression confirming what he'd already suspected regarding his missing grandson's whereabouts.  
  
Gaius' smile was fond but sad as finished, looking up. "Well, I can't say that I'm all that surprised," he commented gruffly, handing the letter back to Uther.  
  
He nodded his agreement. Truthfully, he'd half-expected this to happen - had encouraged it, even - but as a grandfather, it was still hard to let go after all these years of searching.  
  
"I wonder where they'll go," Morgana said idly, sympathy in her eyes as she watched him.  
  
Uther shook his head. "The note doesn't say."  
  
He doubted the pair themselves knew where they were headed, but he knew with certainty that this parting was only temporary. He had not seen the last of his grandson, but he'd meant what he'd said - Arthur's happiness was paramount. Just knowing he was alive somewhere, content, meant more to Uther than any title ever could.  
  
"I hope they're all right," Guinevere said mistily. "Wherever they go."  
  
Morgana's hand found its way to her shoulder, comforting.  
  
"I'm certain they will be," Gaius assured her with a kind smile. "If they don't drive each other mad first."  
  
They stood in silence for a moment, the music of the ball below wafting up through the ceiling to accompany their thoughts. Raising a thin eyebrow in interest, Morgana turned to Uther.  
  
"There's a ballroom full of guests downstairs waiting to hear how we found the grand duke. What will you say to them?"  
  
Uther paused, his eyes hovering on the final words of the letter.  
  
_'Love, Arty.'_  
  
He spared his cousin a glance, resting the note in the box along with the gold crown young Guinevere had brought back with her.  
  
“We didn’t find a grand duke,” he said softly. “He found himself.”

 

 

 

The end.

 

 

 

  
**Translations (for those that want them):**

 _Gospodin_ \- Sir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who’s been reading! I hope you've enjoyed the ride. And another round of gratitude to justicemischief for being such a great beta!


End file.
